A Prayer to the Sun and the Whispers of the Rain
by storytellers
Summary: The revolution has succeeded but the republic has not. Les Amis have scattered and Enjolras has left the country, leaving Grantaire without a pillar to lean on. In a simple room in Paris two souls meet and, among other things, talk.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** My muse has been demanding some peculiar things lately… A brief explanation: This is an alternate universe which is your signal to forget what you know about history and maybe part of what you know about the book. The revolution has succeeded but the republic has not. After it has fallen apart, Ferdinand-Philippe, the former king's son, has come back to take over the throne. Enjolras has left the country. The rest of Les Amis have moved on.

**1.**

It is raining today. Grantaire stares out at the dark wet streets and hates himself for waiting. Hope is a wretched beast and one he has slain many times. And yet, it keeps coming back. Like an old beaten dog comes to rub in the legs of its unwilling master. His lips twist in a crooked grimace of a smile at his own harshness but he knows this hope deserves no kinder comparison. What is he hoping for? A few fragments of attention from a creature as pathetic as he is. The cold touch of a woman who sells her caresses but not her affection. He doesn't even know why he keeps this pretense of companionship. Perhaps because it often saves him money. She doesn't ask any and he often has none to spare. All he offers is food, cheap wine and a shelter from the rain. All _she_ offers is a temporary reprieve from loneliness and a shivering, gray little hope which resurrects every time it rains.

The first time he sees her she is standing, soaked and shivering, on a street corner. A raggedy figure, dimply illuminated by a street light, cursing the weather under her breath. He nearly passes her by with only a flicker of amusement at her inventive turns of phrase. But he has barely spoken to anyone in days and barely been touched by anyone in weeks. His deprived mind latches on to the excuse for interaction.

"I cannot afford you," he informs her from the start. "But clientele would be scarce in this weather and I can offer you a dryer place to be and dinner. Not far from here."

It is a blunt offer which she accepts with a shrug. They converse a little on the way – about Ferdinand-Philippe. Most of France likes the new king better than his late father and better than they liked the short-lived republic of 1832 – 1833. Ferdinand has had much popularity even as a prince and there seems to be an amount of faith in him even from some of the lower classes.

"They come and go – regimes," she says. "And yet I am to be found on the same corner doing the same old thing." She gives a small unpretty laugh. "It's all the same as before."

He swallows a much bitterer reply and instead copies her laughter and agrees.

"All the same."

It is not all the same to him, though. He can remember a time when the loneliness was not so suffocating. He can remember youthful faces and soulful eyes. Laughter, and the glow of a belief stronger than any doubt. And he can remember it all withering away after the revolution. The republic had failed them after all, much like its predecessors, and faith had died faster than it had been born. Louis-Philip had unexpectedly died as well, leaving his son to take advantage of the climate of uncertainty and return triumphantly to reclaim the throne. The ABC had scattered.

Grantaire tries to take comfort in the fact that they are all alive. He sees some of them sometimes but does not dare approach them outside of these chance meetings. Gone is the thread that connected them all. Perhaps because Enjolras has left France and rumor has it he has taken ill. And perhaps even if he were here, he would not be able to resurrect what is dead and buried.

Sometimes he almost wants to mourn them as if they have lost their lives at the barricade. They are lost to him anyway, only in a way that does not present an excuse for tears. He hears some are even married by now. Life goes on. Well, not his. His is stuck where it has always been. He misses them and, above all, he longs to see _him_ again. Apollo, or maybe better – Helios. Grantaire has never been able to set himself on fire but he used to bask in the flames and feel warm.

He senses he has been silent too long and strives to fill the void with more idle chatter.

They reach his apartment – the same shabby, messy place, he has always rented ever since his arrival in Paris and one that he is not sure he will leave after his graduation this year. He lights a lamp and starts a fire while she sits on the bed and removes first her shoes, then her coat and shawl. It is not yet warm enough or he is sure she would remove her dress as well – it is quite soaked and shyness in this situation would only look grotesque.

She is not beautiful, especially in this pitiful state. She is short and a little plump and her face, though not unpleasant, lacks any defining features to make it look attractive.

He tries to avoid whores when he can. Their attitude depresses him and he is always acutely aware that what little he can pay won't even buy him an attempt at friendliness from those prematurely aging girls who are as cynical as he is. It is not their lack of beauty that often puts him off but the lack of any effort to look beautiful, the confirmation that nothing really matters anymore. The girls that match his pocket are the ones that have been robbed of their last shred of vanity. Much like him. But perhaps it is for the better. Perhaps on faces and bodies such as his and theirs, any evidence of vanity would only induce laughter and pity.

He offers her food and talks nonsense while the rain outside peaks to an angry hiss. He fills their glasses with alcohol and the minutes with words that she probably does not understand or care about. But she listens without protest and for that he is grateful. He has been told before to shut up and get down to business. He realizes he doesn't particularly want her so it is all the same to him if tonight their business is never gotten down to. He wants _something_ but he can't quite formulate it. All that he can clearly identify is a sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction. With her? With himself? With the miserable cold night?

When she finally asks, he shrugs.

"I told you I could not afford you so you'll be losing no business without me. And I'm not as much in the mood tonight as to ask repayment for some bread and cheese. So you can simply wait for the rain to stop and go."

She snorts and after a moment's consideration offers again.

"As a thank you. Not business," she says with a small smile, bordering on cynical but just far enough from it to sway him.

Of course, they both know it _is_ still business. But because it is she who has started the arrangement and not he, he can sometimes pretend.

The next time it rains she finds him at home. She requests shelter and makes the same offer. He accepts.

The third time she does not come – busy with a client, perhaps or something else.

Three rainy nights pass with no sign of her and he decides she's gone for good.

But she eventually comes back on the fourth night and he welcomes her. It is all sad and tired but it is company.

From then on he never knows.

So he waits and hates himself for hoping. Waiting rather reminds him of the first year after Enjolras had gone and he knows there is nothing worse than the slow decay of a dying hope. Even now his heart wants to leap at every letter in his mail. Upon each meeting with a former member of what once was the ABC society, he half-expects to hear news of their leader's return.

Of course, such news never comes and tonight, neither will she.

He should not wait for her but there is very little else to wait for. The small gray hope still grips his heart with the cold fingers of a dying infant. It scares him, but not as much as loneliness does.

**Reminder:** No, it's not technically supposed to end here, there should be subsequent chapters. If you want to put some fuel in the fire and make them come faster, I will very much appreciate your reviews.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you for reviewing, you have been excessively kind and this chapter would have been much delayed without your support. On this note, I would like to start campaigning for more reviews for other authors too. I have noticed that there are some great stories out there that barely get a mention. Take a little time to consider even the unusual suspects and, if you can spare a moment, let an author know they've done a good job or at least comment and make a suggestion. We are mostly authors here – we all know how important that is. And I'll try to follow my own advice.

On another note, Enjolras is now included in the characters specification because I realized that however little we see of him, this story still revolves around him a lot.

**2.**

When people ask her name she always introduces herself as Susu. Suzanne-Marie Lenglen almost sounds like it belongs to someone who may have a life. Susu is more fitting for a prostitute and she has long come to terms with her status. She is still young even if she sometimes feels old, so it is not as bad as all that – if you don't get carried away fantasizing about more than a good meal and less sore feet, that is. Somewhere ahead in the future there's bad things to come – growing old, losing business, having nothing to eat, losing friends to poverty and diseases – but since she can't stop them, she protects herself by perfecting her sardonic laugh. She would not claim her life is a tragedy – merely a very sad comedy. But then, people simply don't notice that comedies are always sad. And the future? It is only a notion. It does not exist, except for those who have something good in it to look forward to. For the rest, there is only the present.

In her present, there is a mirror that she is surveying more critically than usual. She adds a little more rouge, then thinks better of it and wipes some of it off. It adds a few years to her face instead of taking them away and she looks older than she is already. She is twenty-five and she is presently – with some effort – _trying_ to pass for at least younger than thirty-five.

It smells like rain tonight, she notes. Normally on such a night she would have three options – go out and wait for clients that won't come, stay home and go hungry, or visit Grantaire. The disheveled, alcohol-smelling sarcastic student is still a handy alternative, even if she all but hates visiting him. She doesn't like him but that's all right – she very rarely likes a man and this one is not easy to like anyway, except perhaps by his drinking mates. She wonders if any of them are the same strange combination of rude and refined that he is. She doubts it. One thing that can be said about Grantaire is that he is rather original.

Well, rain or not, she will not be visiting him today. One of the other girls has found them both and a few others a job for the evening. Very well-paying customers that they are to entertain all night. And somewhere warm. It's a rare thing for someone like her to get this kind of opportunity – it is considered more 'high-class' than what she usually does and she is fussy. Clients with deep pockets are scarce and if they are pleased they may look for her again.

Not two hours later she regrets her efforts dearly and berates herself for her silly optimism. Of course, it figures that a 'high-class' offer would make her feel at her lowest.

She stomps her feet, trying to take it out on the pavement. The pig she has had the displeasure of serving has left her in a terribly bad mood. It has been a case of 'the older more experienced big manly man trying to show a young friend how things are done'. She usually laughs at such displays but this one has taken it one step too far. The bastard has actually had the nerve to admonish his young friend for trying to talk to one of the girls. _Don't talk to them, Arnaud, they're whores, they're too stupid to understand, just treat them like you treat a dog and they'll respond the same. _This has really done it for her tonight. Her skin is not yet thick enough for every insult to rebound from it. Not after standing in front of the mirror for the first time in probably a year and actually trying to look pretty. She's so upset that she abandons the shabby little foul-smelling apartment the men have taken them to almost immediately, even though she knows she'll regret it. She makes some excuse, pretends to be sick and leaves the money-making to the other girls. She feels if she stays she may hit that ass, or one of his friends, and they're not worth being arrested over.

This, of course, means she only gets a few coins that one of the girls slips her out of pity. She's earned more than that tonight but she's broken the arrangement and if she argues with the hosts it may lead to trouble for everyone so she keeps her mouth shut. But she's got nothing except dry bread on the table at home and she's really rather fancied something a bit nicer this time. She almost wants to cry. She's gone on less before but tonight… Yet tears would solve nothing. With what little she's earned she has to pay the rent, not spend it on a fancy breakfast. She considers trying to get a few more clients but it has started raining and her chances are small. She's close to home now but going back to her tiny room wet, grumpy and with only a few coins seems like a failure.

She thinks of Grantaire. It's really very late so chances are he is asleep. But if she could only get a decent meal, she feels things might look a lot better. She decides it's worth the try, makes the trip to his lodgings in the thankfully mild but still cold rain and bangs on his door – not too loudly because she doesn't want a quarrel with the neighbors.

It takes some time before he answers. She's almost decided he's asleep and won't hear her but he eventually swings the door open and leans on the frame, dressed in half-unbuttoned shirtsleeves and with a bottle of absinthe dangling from his hand. He's obviously drunk – a little more so than she is used to seeing him – and he looks faintly surprised to see her. She suddenly wants to go home – she's had enough of disgusting men for one night.

"Didn't think you'd show up…" he mutters.

"Sorry I bothered you so late," she says quickly, "you're obviously busy. Some other time."

He grabs her arm a bit roughly when she turns to leave.

"You've come this far and you haven't come for my company. Especially at this hour." There's bitterness in his voice that may have been brought on by the alcohol or by something else – she can't tell and she doesn't particularly care. "You've had less than favourable results tonight, have you not?" he continues. "And you thought of me. Well, you might as well come in and have… what shall we call it at this hour of the night? Breakfast?"

She pulls her arm free, and gives him a bit of a glare. She wants to say no but that would be a second caprice tonight and she can barely afford one. Instead, she follows him inside. He drags himself back to the table and waves a hand vaguely.

"You know your way around."

She only hesitates for a moment. She throws her coat and shawl on the second chair and sits on the bed to take her shoes off. The surroundings really are more than familiar. Has she been here that often? She moves almost automatically around the room, taking some bread, cheese and wine out, setting them on the table. She doesn't say anything. She feels he's in a bad mood and doesn't want to become a target for it. She's not exactly afraid of him – he's never raised a hand against her so far – but there is something dark in him that intimidates her. Perhaps because it is always half-hidden beneath layers of sarcasm, mountains of words and deceptively jovial laughter. He is not as simple as the men she usually interacts with and his intelligence and knowledge contribute to her feeling of uneasiness. She knows how to talk and have an opinion or she wouldn't have lasted this long in his company but it is still very hard to understand him sometimes.

His eyes follow her as she arranges plates on the table and his lips twist in a crooked smile.

"My, but are we pretty tonight."

She stops in her tracks and an unpleasant feeling forms in her stomach. His remark sounds like mockery, not a compliment and it makes her feel humiliated rather than praised. She buries her fingers in her hair and pulls at the pins hidden in it. The carefully arranged curls fall in a messy pile down her back and she wipes at her lips and face with the back of her hands to erase some of the foolishly painted picture. He opens his mouth, almost as if to stop her but thinks better of it. He watches her for a few moments, uncharacteristically silent, before returning to his occupation. He is drinking from his glass of absinthe and reading a sheet of paper covered in small, elegant writing. Perhaps a letter? The paper is creased and looks relatively old. She chews on her food silently for a little while and allows her imagination to run wild. Perhaps it is from a woman? Some lost love he remembers in the depths of intoxication? But no, the scroll does not look feminine. It occurs to her that she could ask. The prospect is a little frightening but she still has her pent up anger from before and it makes her more daring.

"What are you reading?" she asks.

He doesn't rebuke her, simply gives a short laugh, folds the sheet and hides it in a pocket out of sight.

"The words of someone who wanted to deliver the world and discovered all too soon that the world was not worth delivering."

"Someone you knew?"

"Someone I wish I knew."

She knows better than to hope for a straight answer from him. She keeps asking things to keep the conversation going since she has, after all, come here partly to distract herself from her unpleasant experience earlier.

"Where is he now?"

"Devil knows. Somewhere in America if he hasn't moved. And if he's still alive. He might have died for all I know, it's not like I'd get a word."

"Why not?"

"Why would I?"

"If you were friends…"

"Friends, him and I? Hah! He wouldn't allow it. And perhaps that was wise of him. The best that can be said is that we may have had friends in common at one time. And still, they would have been more his friends than mine if they had ever been forced to choose."

"Who was he then?"

He looks at her over the rim of his glass.

"A pillar," he says quietly. "Made for others to lean on. Hard and cold and the only thing that could keep you standing when your own two legs would not support you or when the winds were such that they would both bend you and break you unless you could get a hold of something solid."

She laughs, not so much in merriment or even in mockery but more in surprise. She has never heard him speak like this about anything – with honest approval that he doesn't bother to hide right now. She has known him long enough already to know that what praise Grantaire gives, he gives grudgingly and usually with an air of condescension.

She is even more surprised to find that she suddenly feels dislike for the man the praises are meant for. What a farce! Dislike for a man she doesn't know because he's being praised by a man she doesn't care about. And yet she can't make herself ignore the anger that blossoms in her chest at the thought that even a moneyless drunk student of God-knows-what whose bed she shares if she has nothing better to do has the audacity to think nothing of her but talk with such veneration of a person who's evidently some years and an ocean away.

"You're not talking about a man but about a piece of architecture," she tells him sardonically.

Grantaire glares at her, then averts his eyes as if momentarily disappointed.

"Stupid girl," he mutters but immediately laughs. "It figures you'd hate him now. You didn't deserve him, you lot. But he still risked his life so the likes of you could live better."

A revolutionary? She finds it a little surprising that Grantaire might have mingled with such a crowd with that cynical smile of his but she supposed the movement attracted all sorts.

"And this is me living better," she says, and the sarcasm is so thick on her tongue that she can almost taste it. Whoever it is across the ocean would have to forgive her but she can't stop herself. She has been called stupid one too many times tonight. She wants to insult and belittle the man Grantaire is talking about in order to recover at least a fragment of her own already tattered self-esteem. The irony is that she has always had sympathies for the revolutionary students. Those young, beautiful boys, who offered their lives readily in exchange for a dream. In the very short, very private moments when she can allow herself a little sentimentality, her heart goes out to them. She even remembers spending that first night of fighting wishing she was one of the mistresses who followed their lovers to the barricades. But, having no lover who could raise her up with his ideals or fight in her name, she has never found a good enough reason to have been there herself.

Not that it matters now.

"So that pillar of yours – he was at the barricades?" she asks, doing her best to sound mildly disinterested. "Were you there with him?"

"Yes and no. I was drunk," Grantaire says, playing dispassionate better than she does – unless it's truly not an act. "I slept through most of it. By the time I woke up it was nearly over. I might have moved a few bodies, helped around a bit. That's all."

"Why were you there then? Did you believe in their cause?"

"I believed in him."

He says it softly and thoughtfully, staring at the green liquid in his glass. She wrinkles her nose. The claim sounds somehow too sentimental for Grantaire and makes her feel oddly out of place.

"But you don't anymore so that's that," she says, wanting to change the subject.

He looks up, curiously startled, and squints at her for a moment as if he hasn't quite grasped what she is saying. With all the alcohol in his system, that's no wonder. She's counted the empty bottles and she's surprised he can string sentences together at all. She continues anyway.

"He's gone so why read old writings of his? You could find better ways to occupy your nights."

His expression reverts back to the familiar smirk of bitterness, hidden behind a thin veil of mockery. He raises an eyebrow.

"Should I take it you are suggesting yourself as an occupation?"

She shrugs.

"For the right price or when I owe you a favour."

He chuckles darkly.

"I wonder if you would not feel better if one of these days you start at least hating me properly. It will at least be some sort of emotion."

"I was not aware emotion was required."

"No. It's not part of the arrangement, is it?"

"Would you like it better if I hated you?"

"I don't suppose it would make much of a difference."

Yet he sounds a little uncertain. Human beings seek the approval of their fellows – it's an instinct. Immunity to hatred is a myth. She knows it better than most. Judging by the barely perceptible waver in his voice, he does too.

"Do you hate me, then?" she asks.

He snorts and shakes his head.

"Why would I? And what is more important – why _bother_? Hating is too much effort."

"And you don't like making an effort… Did he hate you?"

He inclines his head to the side, thoughtful for a moment.

"No," he says. "He was angry with me. Disappointed. But he didn't hate me. Perhaps I was not important enough to hate. He saved his hatred for big things like ideas. He did the same with his love."

"Did you love him?"

He squints at her for a second and unexpectedly bursts laughing. He leans back in his chair, stretches his arms and knits his fingers together behind his neck.

"Perhaps you're hoping to hear from me a more interesting story than what reality has to offer. I could invent you one if you like, it hardly matters. I could write you pages of prose on his eyes and lips and hair that you and the girls of your trade could then snigger over and speculate what exactly I thought of him. The truth is that I loved him as a plant loves the sun. He simply seemed, at the time, necessary to my survival. It was instinctual for me to reach for him, that's all. He offered things I could not find anywhere else."

Suzanne listens, sipping her wine. She has forgotten to count her glasses and they have become, perhaps, too many. She feels warm and maybe a little dizzy. This conversation is strange and unfamiliar and she isn't sure what she is feeling. A little bitter envy for the man they are talking about still remains but it is now joined by grudging curiosity. She keeps asking question after question as they are presented by her mind and Grantaire, for some reason, does not seem disinclined to answer. Maybe he is too drunk to realize he should mind.

"If he was so important to you, why did you not follow him when he left?" she asks finally.

Grantaire frowns, as if from the memory of an old insult.

"He didn't tell me he was going."

She pauses to take another bite.

"Will he be back?" she asks when she has gulped it down.

"I don't know... Perhaps not."

"Do you want him back?"

There is long silence. Grantaire stares into his glass again and after a while she starts wondering if he has just fallen asleep with his eyes open. But then he lifts the glass and finishes its contents.

"Yes. I want him back."

He turns his head to look at her. His eyes are dark, reddened and clouded by the drink and she sees in them something she cannot immediately place. It is an emotion balanced precariously between gentle and hard. It is both a longing and a demand and something else she is reluctant to look closer at. In any case, it is more than she has ever wished to see. She thinks briefly of getting up and leaving but she realizes she is glued to her spot and for the first time in this room, she is afraid.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Yes, the rest of the Amis exist and we'll see glimpses of them as we go ahead. Let me know what you think of these versions of them and Grantaire and about my little attempt to create a female character who is not a complete Mary-Sue. (By the way, yes, the name was an attempt at irony.)

**3.**

Grantaire opens his door one morning after some insistent knocking and is more than mildly surprised to find Courfeyrac standing there. His old friend draws him into a quick embrace and invites himself in with his usual lack of ceremony.

"So Grantaire, my friend, how have you been and what trouble have you gotten into since I have last seen you?" he asks, seating himself on a chair and draping one arm over the back of it.

"Me?" Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him over his shoulder while he's fumbling for a bottle of wine. "My life is terribly mundane, especially compared to your last escapades. Am I correct to assume that I am now looking at a married man?"

Courfeyrac chuckles and nods. He indicates the wedding band on his finger with a smile, which is a bit of a surprise for Grantaire. He remembers bumping into him on the street some ten months ago and puzzling over the young man's troubled and uncharacteristically gloomy demeanor. He has shrugged it off at the time only to discover later that Courfeyrac has gotten hastily married in some little town. Grantaire knows what this is likely to mean – there has been a child thrown into the equation. An accidental marriage isn't a particularly surprising development for one like Courfeyrac but it has grieved Grantaire to think that such an exuberant, light-hearted creature would be forced to become solemn, trapped into an unwanted union.

Yet he now seems perfectly happy.

"I won't lie, I hadn't planned on exchanging wedding vows quite so soon but it has not been as bad as I initially feared," Courfeyrac assures him. "And my darling wife – oh, you should meet her! She is the prettiest, most amusing little devil. She declared to me on the first night of our marriage that since I did not love her, she hoped I would not object to her taking a lover and she, in turn would be quite willing to let me make similar arrangements. She did, at this, undress, put on a pretty little nightgown, wished me goodnight quite cheerfully and went to sleep. I did not, in fact, have a wedding night in the usual sense of the phrase earlier than two whole months into my marriage. That was the time it took me to realize that I did, in fact, mind quite a bit for her to take a lover and I didn't have much wish to take a mistress either. Plus the time I then spent begging on my knees, of course."

Grantaire laughs heartily at this incredible tale and wonders whether he should completely believe it. It is, after all, quite possible that Courfeyrac is ashamed of his misfortune and seeks to present it as a lucky development. The sparks of mirth in his eyes seem genuine but Grantaire has seen little of him the last two years and decides he cannot count on his recollection of the young man's character and gestures.

"And have you only come here to share this unexpected happiness with me?" he asks as he settles into the second chair and sips his wine.

"I have come to compensate for the fact that I did not invite you – or anyone – to my wedding. It was a rather quick affair, organized by Jacqueline's family. Her brother was my best man. I am certain they were afraid I would run away." He winks as if this counts as something in his favour. "But now that we are both happily settled in Paris and Victor is already three months old… Well, I would like to invite you to my son's baptism. Since I could not have Marius as a best man even though he bestowed that honour upon me, I have now attempted to apologize by making him and Cosette godparents and I am determined that the celebration should somewhat compensate my friends for not receiving a piece of my wedding cake."

"A baptism?" Grantaire shakes his head sadly. "My dear Courfeyrac, I fear we have lost you forever."

Courfeyrac chuckles and pats his arm.

"Give me a chance to convince you otherwise. Come and meet Jacqueline and Victor at the baptism next week. I am trying to gather everyone but this squabble between Bahorel and Combeferre is not helping. Bahorel still hasn't forgiven him for accepting to work for the king."

Grantaire shrugs.

"I think none of us took that too well."

He himself has initially condemned Combeferre's decision. Not because it has seemed like a betrayal of the republic but because it has seemed like a betrayal of Enjolras. He has only gradually forgiven the young doctor even if it has quickly become clear that Combeferre has been using his position mainly to defend the interests of the people. He is to the masses now what Lamarque has once been and Grantaire finds that he cannot blame him anymore. The man has simply tried to adapt to the times and be of service. Still, Grantaire wonders what Enjolras would say – or has said, if he and Combeferre are still in correspondence – upon learning the news.

"It's true, even I had my doubts about that choice," Courfeyrac admits. "But it has proven to be a clever move, as we should have expected from our dear doctor and philosopher. I have asked his forgiveness for my hasty judgment and have asked both him and his wife to attend. Ah, and _that_ is a shame, is it not? Another wedding none of us attended because we were too busy sulking."

"I sent my apologies," Grantaire says, feeling the need to smother a mild feeling of guilt. He has indeed refused to go to the wedding, clinging to the ridiculous notion of showing loyalty to Enjolras and his ideas, even if he has never particularly shared them. But the remnants of the affection he has always felt towards Combeferre as well has not allowed him to leave the invitation completely without response. He has invented some illness, some sort of excuse, and sent his best wishes. A transparent lie but at least an effort to spare Combeferre's feelings. He now realizes that it hasn't occurred to him none of them would go and feels a rare stab of regret. It seems what ties have not been broken by circumstances, they have done their best to break on their own.

"As did I," Courfeyrac says with a nod. "It was shortly after my own wedding and I was not in town. The invitation was forwarded to me and I could barely respond in time for my answer to reach him. He says he understands all of us but I can sense the poor man has felt rather abandoned. I should like to make it up to him."

Grantaire nods.

"Next week you say?"

"On the fifth. I shall give you all the details when we part."

"And you have gotten it into your head to gather the Amis there?"

"I'm still trying to find Feuilly's current address and Bahorel will take a little convincing not to act like an ass but I am certain in the end everyone will be there."

"Nearly."

"What do you mean? Ah, yes. Enjolras. But he is still in America, Combeferre tells me."

"Combeferre receives news from him?" Grantaire tries not to sound overly interested but anything to do with Enjolras still excites him.

"On occasion," Courfeyrac replies. "He could not say much about him, though. Or didn't want to say much. But I can't imagine why that would be, so I'm sure there was simply not much to say."

For some reason the last few sentences make Grantaire slightly uneasy. He's not entirely sure why. There is something off about both ideas – that Combeferre and Enjolras have lost touch to a large extent or that Combeferre is hiding something about their former leader. Either way, there is nothing Grantaire can do on the matter so he tries his best not to dwell too much.

"I was glad to see Combeferre again," Courfeyrac continues. "We managed to chat quite amicably like two married men for the first fifteen minutes of my audience. And were appropriately amused at ourselves afterwards." He chuckles again. "And you, my dear Grantaire? _You_ have not gotten married without our knowledge, I trust?"

Grantaire snorts. That question does not require an answer.

"I am asking," Courfeyrac says while bending down and picking something off the floor, "because I don't suppose you use these on your hair."

Grantaire squints a little to see the object between his friend's fingers. It's a hairpin. He laughs.

"Shows that I should sweep my floor more often – it hasn't rained since last week."

Courfeyrac raises eyebrows at his friend's mutterings.

"Pardon? Does it rain hairpins in your home?"

Grantaire smirks, somewhat enjoying having a puzzle to offer.

"It sometimes does. It's water out there and hairpins in here." When Courfeyrac continues to look at him expectantly, he relents. "I have a curious little arrangement with a certain woman."

"A romantic arrangement?"

"A most unromantic arrangement. Don't concern yourself with it, neither she nor I do."

Courfeyrac still looks curious but refrains from questioning him further. Instead, he turns the conversation towards their old companions and shares what news he has gathered while visiting them. Grantaire points him to where he has last seen Feuilly and wishes him good luck with his search and with Bahorel. Courfeyrac in turn gives him the time and name of the church they are to meet at and leaves him with mixed feelings of anticipation and worry. He is afraid of the memories this reunion might bring back. Or maybe of the proof for the irreversible present he is sure to see among the glimpses from a past that is unlikely to ever return.

**End Note:** Courfeyrac has promised a dance for everyone who shares their two sous.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Forgive me the absence but I am in my Honors year and about to begin my main laboratory project so it has been a little hectic. I have not, however abandoned any of my fics. Hopefully, this is worth the wait. I do mean to post the next chapter these days so encouragement is welcome and will probably help.

**4.**

Grantaire notices his hand slightly shaking while he is tying his cravat, preparing to go to the baptism of Courfeyrac's son. Whether it's from the alcohol he's consumed the previous night or from nerves, he doesn't know. He is not entirely sure which explanation he prefers. This strange apprehension could perhaps be explained by the fact that he hasn't seen these men together for such a long time and so many things have changed since then.

He leaves his home and walks to his destination. The weather is mild today and the sky is surprisingly clear. A poetical soul like Prouvaire has no doubt noted what a suitable day it is for such an event.

He stops just across the street from the church and surveys the small crowd which has collected in front. Courfeyrac has made good on his promise to gather all of the Amis and there they are. Eight members of a half-forgotten brotherhood which was once so dear to them all.

There is Pontmercy with his wife. Grantaire has met her a few times. Pretty, uncomplicated creature, a little too sheltered and unaware of the world for his tastes but very suitable for a soul like young Marius. A two-year-old girl is clinging to her skirts, dressed in something that seems to consist entirely of ribbons. Trust Pontmercy to go all overindulgent on his child. A few steps further, Lesgle is just sharing an embrace with Courfeyrac himself. The eagle of Meux is looking better-kept and better-dressed than Grantaire remembers him from long ago, if just as bald. Has he finally – oh, what a thought – made his luck turn? How curious that would be. Then there is Joly, eyes sparkling and lips stretched in a huge grin. Their little hypochondriac has a slightly more important air about him and has gained a little bit of weight which manages to agree with him. There is a girl beside him and Grantaire thinks he recognizes her as the same notorious mistress the young doctor has been lovingly manipulated by for years. The one with the fortune-teller's eyes. The pair are talking to Bahorel who, to those who know him well, is looking uncharacteristically reserved. He is smiling at Joly and his girl and it appears to be a genuine smile but his voice, which would normally be loud enough to carry to Grantaire's ears at this distance, is much subdued and his movements are somewhat guarded. Finally, Grantaire spots what he thinks might be the reason for this – Combeferre and a young woman Grantaire presumes to be his wife are standing some distance away, talking to Jean Prouvaire. Grantaire notes with some amusement and a sudden rush of fondness that Prouvaire's fashion sense has not improved in the least. The Combeferres themselves are simply, but impeccably dressed, and make a handsome couple. He studies the woman with some curiosity. She has a soft, slightly thoughtful smile and her expression carries hints of a keen intellect. Or is he perhaps just making that assumption because he would expect no less from the life-partner of someone like Combeferre?

They all look so different… so _well_. And his own reflection in the mirror has been getting shabbier if anything. He almost manages to turn and leave, feeling that he would clash with this picture of prospects and joy. He is unwilling to sacrifice any more dignity by subjecting himself to a comparison, not now, not here. He would make some shame-faced apology to Courfeyrac later. But Lesgle finally notices him and waves him over, attracting the attention of the others as well. Left without a choice, Grantaire crosses the street to join them and is greeted with handshakes and taps on the shoulder from Lesgle, Joly and Bahorel who reach him first. Courfeyrac then comes to embrace him and his grin is nearly splitting his face.

"Did I tell you I would get them all here?" he asks, throwing an arm around Grantaire's shoulders and surveying the rest. "Look at this pretty little flock. Prettier by some degree than I remember it. With an addition or two of the gentle sex. Come, Combeferre, Grantaire has not met your better half."

Combeferre's smile is a little tight as he steps forward to make introductions and Grantaire wonders how much his humble person is being despised for not going to the wedding. His own smile is probably just as frozen, shot dead by guilt and the general feeling that he has walked into a dance hall without knowing how to dance. Thankfully, Courfeyrac ushers them all in before he and Combeferre have to figure out what to say to each other.

After the main event is over, the proud father busies himself parading his admittedly charming wife and offspring in his admittedly charming new house. As luck would have it, Grantaire, already somewhat in his cups, accidentally finds himself standing next to Combeferre again and there is not even the doctor's wife there to facilitate the conversation. There is a small awkward pause which he hurries to fill.

"So the charmer has finally been charmed himself…"

Combeferre nods and his expression warms-up as he glances at the young family before looking back at Grantaire and offering him yet another upward twist of lips that seems a little off.

"How have you been?"

Grantaire gives a non-committal shrug accompanied by a crooked little smile of his own.

"Not well enough to boast, not bad enough to complain. How about you?"

Combeferre opens his mouth to answer but stops and for a moment looks a little lost. As if he has looked at his basket of words and found a ball of snakes there.

"I am… reasonably well," he says finally.

At first Grantaire isn't sure what exactly is wrong but then his slightly drunken brain seems to focus on the man in front of him with surprising clarity. And only now he realizes that, rather than cold or offended, Combeferre is simply uneasy and the only thing wrong with his smile is the uncertainty behind it. Perhaps he believes Grantaire is condemning his choices like Bahorel is, like the others have, and is unsure of how he will be received. Perhaps he is reluctant to say he is happy as the two recent major changes in his life that would inevitably be connected with that happiness may lead to a confrontation. Happiness in his career may lead to the awkward matter of his position with the king and talk of a happy family life may seem like a purposeful accusation to those who have deserted him on his wedding day. Combeferre, being Combeferre, would attempt to avoid either at this moment, for the sake of Courfeyrac if nothing else. This new insight makes Grantaire want to reassure his old comrade. He smiles again, a little more relaxed, and hopes it looks friendly. He is never sure if his smiles conduct exactly what he wants them to.

"You should be happy, my friend. For one thing, it seems you have married Athena and I regret not witnessing it."

Combeferre laughs in surprise at this and his eyes dart for a moment to where his wife is talking to Joly's mistress.

"For once, Grantaire, your comparison hits the mark perfectly. She is Athena herself. And I am indeed very happy. And please, don't trouble yourself over not coming. You were… ill. And you were kind enough to let me know. Believe me, I am not holding that against you."

It is quite clear what stays unsaid behind this statement. Combeferre their friend has judged their actions as simply human and forgiven them. Grantaire considers him, wondering how to communicate his own position.

"Thank you for that. I'm really quite healthy now," he says, hoping that Combeferre would catch the hint. He seems to, because he brightens up.

"I'm glad to hear that." He looks like he wants to add something but seems to think better of it. "It's good to see everyone gathered again."

"Well, nearly…" Grantaire battles with the question burning on his lips for a few moments but loses. "Have you heard from Enjolras?"

Combeferre nods.

"Occasionally. Last letter arrived about a month ago but obviously it took a while to get here. He's still in America, as far as I know."

Something in his tone worries Grantaire even as he feels rather relieved – correspondence means that Enjolras himself has accepted Combeferre's decision and this can be taken as approval for the rest of them to do so.

"Is he all right?" he asks.

Combeferre hesitates.

"He… has said that we should not worry about him."

This non-answer sounds so ominous that Grantaire can't keep a hint of fear from his voice.

"Is he really ill? I thought I heard Jehan mention something like this once when I met him but he didn't seem certain."

Now Combeferre looks distinctly uncomfortable and takes so long to formulate an answer that Grantaire is about ready to shout at him.

"He has asked me for an opinion on some matters which I have promised to keep confidential. Really, that obligation should have prevented me from saying even this much. I know you hold him dear but if I discuss the matter further, I would be betraying his confidence. Please, for both of our sakes and his, don't ask me more. I myself am not certain of any answer and I have no wish to spread rumors."

Grantaire falls silent, more in shock than obedience, and shock is soon followed by gripping, sinking, dizzying terror. Terror at the near-certainty that there is something horribly wrong and his world may be about to crumble. Not for the first but maybe for the final time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for the kind words.I'm sorry for the wait but it's exam time. I hope it was worth it. On another note, my apologies to Feuilly. While I was cutting and pasting around I obviously lost his description for the last chapter. He was, of course, there, as the number of people should have told you, and he had his one sentence which I will add at some point when I find the time. And now, enjoy and please leave me a little (or big if you can) comment, I will be very grateful.

**5.**

After about five minutes of knocking, Suzanne-Marie lets her hand fall and slides down to the floor by Grantaire's door. She hates being here, hates the rain and the cold, hates herself for sinking so low, hates him for not being in and twice as much for being her last resort. At the back of her mind her last remnants of dignity are glad he's not at home. Her rational mind however is telling her she has nowhere else to go. Another unpaid rent and her landlord has finally kicked her out. She has earned a small part of the money tonight but not too much and she doesn't have any friends who would have a space for her.

She has had a friend, once. Lucile. A prostitute like her, older, not much prettier or wanted but gifted with a far more patient nature. 'Ah, they just don't know any better,' she would say when Suzanne would complain about customers, 'We'd all be better if we could'. Suzanne has always thought it abnormal to be so at peace with a world which seems so at war with them. Yet having such a friend is soothing when one has no strength left to be angry.

In her moments of idle fantasizing, Suzanne has sometimes imagined Lucile as a schoolteacher, surrounded by little girls and wished absently for half a second to be one of those girls. She doesn't allow herself fantasies often or for long because they tend to hurt more than comfort with their implausibility. Even now, the memory of Lucile's tired, friendly face mixes with images of a schoolyard and tidy uniforms entirely constructed by her imagination. That only makes it worse. In truth, Lucile has gotten murdered on the streets one night, stabbed with a knife in some dark alley. If it was personal and planned or if some unstable client simply got angry over something, Suzanne doesn't know. But on some nights when she is out, she is still gripped by sudden waves of numbing terror and she is certain that any moment she will be dragged in the shadows and cut open like a pig. She dreams of her friend's ghost sometimes too and wakes up in tears, tangled in the covers. When she calms down enough, she curses her work. Being a prostitute is bad enough without the fear of being killed.

She hasn't had a friend like Lucile since. They have so often shared belongings with each other in the past that Suzanne still has among her things two dresses that aren't really her own. She doesn't dare wear them but she doesn't want to give them away.

The rest of the girls are cautiously friendly towards her but none are real friends – certainly not enough to sacrifice anything to help her. And she has nothing to offer them. Grantaire is at least a man and wants what all men want. Only a single customer buying her shelter for the night is a good bargain for her and that's what she has come to offer. Unfortunately, there seems to be no one to offer it to.

She considers standing up and leaving the building but it's warmer here than outside. Thus she remains sitting by the door, cheek resting on one knee, trying to preserve some heat. She's nearly dosing off when she hears uneven steps climbing the stairs towards her. She stands up. If it's a stranger, they'll likely throw her out unless she pretends to have some business being here. A moment later she relaxes by a fraction when she sees the man who appears on the landing. The light is very dim but it's easy to recognize Grantaire. She can tell right away he's very drunk – both from the fumes reaching her nose and from the way he sways on the spot when he stops to look at her.

"Ah, yes…" He's slurring slightly – less than most men would when they are this inebriated but then again, Grantaire is a talker so perhaps he has at some point learned to overcome this effect of alcohol. "The rain… Didn't know it would rain…"

By these words she judges that he has recognized her. But when he spends the next minute just standing there looking at her, she finally decides she should take the initiative if either of them is to ever get inside.

"Come on now, _monsieur_. Your door is over here, you may as well open it." Her own voice stings her ears a bit. It has hints of exasperation and annoyance and faint mockery and desperation all embedded in it like tiny pieces of a broken mirror stuck in the fabric of a carpet. However, it seems to bring him somewhat to his senses as he frowns and pats the general area of his pockets.

"Keys… Keys, you see, are a thing of dual nature," he recites while searching. "They can be the means to get you inside when it's cold but they are also what locked you out in the first place. And then there are doors one shouldn't open. And they exist upon this earth to mock human nature. If a thing should never be accessed, touched, looked upon, then why, pray tell, not put it behind a door without a key or even keyhole so it simply cannot be opened? Why make it illusively accessible so that humans will always try to find the key and see behind the door, even when they know they should not? So the gods can laugh at their weakness, that's why. Like the damned forbidden tree in Eden…"

If this string of half-logical nonsense holds any immediate value or even much relevance to the situation, she can't discern it and she doesn't care to try harder. She eventually sighs, steps forward and searches his pockets herself until she finds the keys. She unlocks the door and he follows her inside, continuing his tirade in much the same fashion and nearly knocking over a chair in the darkness. She largely ignores what he is saying. She knows where the candles are so she lights two and sets them on the table. When she turns, he's sitting on the bed, staring at her again. Now, in the slightly brighter light, she can take a better look at him and she notices with some surprise that there's blood on his lip and hand and a few bruises on his face.

"What happened to you?"

He pauses his babbling to look at her in some confusion. It occurs to her that he has no idea what she's talking about.

"Hm?" he says.

"You look like you have been in a fight," she elaborates.

"Boxed. Won, even. And drank to my victory. Speaking of which, pour me a glass."

She rolls her eyes.

"It would seem you've had enough. I don't even know how you are conscious."

"I'm working on that. So give me the damned wine, woman, or if you can't even do that, what are you good for?"

She fights an overwhelming urge to slap him and brings him a glass of wine which she thrusts into his hand non-too-gently. She cannot afford being thrown out so she is better off keeping her mouth shut but it's not easy. The man can be maddening. Grantaire raises his glass in a quick mock toast and drinks thirstily as if the liquid is nothing but water in a hot summer day. She stands there for a few moments, arms wrapped around herself and shivering slightly while he contemplates his glass.

"Can I start a fire?" she asks.

He snorts.

"Ah, my cracked, miserable muse. You probably couldn't, especially in this state. Except, perhaps in a blind man and such clients are scarce. That's why you're here tonight, isn't it? Leave fire to the gods – humans were never meant to have it. Not even that tainted flame that poets like to call passion but is only just lust. It takes more than you or me for even such a spark."

It takes her a while to make sense of the insult veiled by his vague phrasing and then she blushes red in embarrassment and fury. Whatever she may be, who is he to tell her so? She glares at him but remains silent with an effort and starts fiddling with the fireplace, not bothering to ask for permission again. Her movements are made short and forceful by her anger. Behind her, Grantaire stumbles to the table to pour himself more wine.

"Help yourself to what's in the cupboards," he mutters, "I have no time for you tonight."

This stings her even more, especially since the extra harshness in his voice comes as a bit of a surprise. He's always mocking, yes, but she has never known him to be intentionally rude or hurtful. It's like that dark and bitter something she has previously only caught glimpses of behind his eyes is now leaking through a crack in the dam. His words now make her feel like a beggar and she discovers that she apparently still has some pride to be injured. She works for her money. It may be a degrading profession but she is doing something. The insinuation that she comes to a stranger's house to receive charity and condescension is unbearable. She straightens sharply from where she has been kneeling in front of the tiny newly lit fire and turns to him, eyes blazing.

"I am no beggar. If you don't want my company you should have said so."

"Company?" He laughs. "Company is when people ask nothing else of each other but the pleasure of sharing the air they breathe. I've seen what company is like, even if I have rarely been part of it. You and I are not company– we're both whores that sell and never give away, except at least I don't try to pretend I have any dignity left."

She strikes him across the face. One of those impulsive moves that always get her in trouble. Maybe they come from a similar place as his rude comments but if what seeps through the cracks in his armor is coldness, what now bubbles under the crust on her heart is scalding hot.

In his current state, the slap is enough to send him off balance and he staggers backwards before catching himself clumsily on the table and overturning both of the candles. They roll off the edge along with their candlesticks and patter out on the floor, one after the other, leaving the room in darkness. With the sudden disappearance of the flames, for a few moments Suzanne can see nothing but colourful squares. Then her eyes adjust and, in the faint light from the window and the fireplace, she starts making her way towards the door.

"The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo…" Grantaire mutters softly when she passes him. She stops. He is not particularly talking to her and if this phrase had been as incomprehensible as they usually are, she would have walked on. But the words stir a memory and she cannot resist the temptation to complete his quotation – to show that, for once, she knows where it has come from.

"You, that way: we, this way," she finishes and feels a small spark of triumph when he looks up, startled. "Love's Labour's Lost. I've seen it." The few times she has gone to a theatre she has wondered if she should regret spending money on unnecessary things but this moment has made it all worth it. For once, she doesn't feel inferior and she is greatly satisfied that he hasn't expected it. A moment later though, he seems lost in his thoughts again.

"You, that way: we, this way…" he repeats and pauses for a few moments. "What am I to do if he is never coming back? What now? The sun's last lovingly crafted flowers have withered and scattered on the wind and the world now belongs completely to the merchants."

There is profound sadness in his voice this time that catches her off guard, and even though she doesn't know what he is talking about, she feels her heart clench in her chest. When she looks up at his face, his eyes are too bright in the darkness. She doesn't dare check if there are tears in them. She only half-understands what's going on.

"What now…?" Grantaire asks again with a sigh so that it doesn't even sound like a question and takes a gulp from his glass, looking much more harmless now. We'd all be better if we could, Lucile chants in her head. Suzanne feels the angry tension leave her body. Her shoulders sag a little and she echoes his sigh as she takes the glass from his fingers, finishes it quickly and prods him towards his bed.

"Now? Now you sleep this off and maybe you will make more sense in the morning. But that is just a guess as I have never seen you on a morning. Or heard you make sense, for that matter. Go, go to bed, Grantaire."

He obeys without comment and all the alcohol he has consumed ensures that he is asleep immediately. She stands alone in the darkness a while more. Then she takes a chair to the window, sits down and looks out at the strange, cold, relentlessly sad streets of Paris. She starts to cry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** This took a surprisingly long time. The next one is underway so hopefully it will arrive sooner. Thanks to all who are reading and commenting - I love reading your feedback and it helps a lot!

**6.**

When Grantaire wakes up, it is to a familiar throbbing in his head and to a weak desire to vomit. He is so used to both sensations that he can almost ignore them. He cracks his eyes open cautiously as he knows even moderately bright light would hurt them if it is present in the room. Grayish gloom greets him instead. It looks nearly like night time but what is visible beyond his dusty window pane informs him that it is merely a very dark and rainy morning. Not uncommon for January, of course. Less expected is what he sees right next to the window. The short figure is curled up awkwardly on the chair, one arm lying flat on the windowsill and cushioning her head. Susu. He remembers her appearing last night. He can't see her face as it is covered by brown locks. He half-heartedly tries to make sense of her presence. She never stays the night – he has offered her twice in the past. He tries to recall the previous evening and immediately regrets it as a wave of hopelessness hits him with the memory of his conversation with Combeferre.

"Enjolras…" he whispers, even though the name hurts to say.

After bidding Courfeyrac and his wife a goodbye, he has wandered into the less respectable parts of Paris and done his best to beat, wash and banish any thoughts from his head. Because what may have seemed to someone else like a nearly innocent conversation has brought on him an awakening – and a painful one at that. Enjolras is gone. Gone for good, as sure as if he were dead. God only knows if he's not. He's not invincible after all, is he?

Th e feeling that has taken hold of him now resembles something from his younger years. Disillusionment, is it? The realization that the world is much worse than you have feared. Just when he has thought he's had no illusions left to lose. The process has been slower in his youth and it has ended with the death of a young hopeful boy and the birth of Grantaire the cynic. This time? This time it feels twice as much like dying inside and he isn't sure if anything worth mentioning will be left of him after the feeling is gone. Perhaps someone would dig under the ashes and dust and find a small, dark creature, ugly and pathetic, all teeth and claws and tattered black feathers.

What makes him feel so lost is not merely that he feels in his heart that he will never see his idol again but the suspicion that Enjolras has changed, that the unbreakable has been somehow broken. Even if he has not been told so in so many words, even if there is nothing to confirm it beyond doubt, he feels it. Maybe it is only some dark premonition brought by Combeferre's awkwardness and desire for secrecy, but the premonition quickly turns for Grantaire into a certainty. And he cannot bear the thought. It means the death of the last vestiges of hope, faith and devotion he has been harboring for so long. He wants to drink again, until he doesn't know his name anymore. Who is he anyway? Without Enjolras, he has nothing left to love. The others are too far away now – too good, too busy, too estranged to understand or care. His only companion now is the tattered ragdoll resting on the chair opposite him. She may be as unneeded and abandoned as he is but even she would not endure his company if it didn't benefit her. Unhappiness, Grantaire muses, does not bring people together. It only makes them hate each other more to mask how much they hate themselves.

And yet she is here now and some tiny desperate part of him, some stubborn spark of life makes him feel weak with relief that there is _someone_ there. _Anyone_. Because God forbid that he had woken up this morning alone with his thoughts. At least her being there is now busying a part of his mind which would have otherwise been preoccupied with misery.

Almost mechanically, he stands up, rekindles the fire and picks up the two fallen candlesticks. He drinks a glass of water to clear his head and just then notices there are no food leftovers on the table. He checks his cupboards and nothing is missing from them.

"Silly woman," Grantaire mutters and, while taking out bread, cheese and wine, wonders if she simply forgot to eat or if her injured pride prevented her. No, that would be too foolish for a woman from the streets. One learns to survive first and have a pride only if opportunity presents itself.

Once he is finished setting things on the table he approaches her with the intention to wake her up. His hand stops uncertainly inches away from her shoulder and he examines her instead. Her hair is down and covering her face. It is by now nearly dry. It curls loosely as it dries. He has noticed that once or twice on those nights when they have spent enough hours talking for the heat of the fire to slowly lift the rainwater from her in little wisps of steam. It starts with dark, nearly black strands, sticking to her neck almost like tentacles. Then, as the warmth works its way through them, they loosen their hold and fade to a deep brown, becoming lighter without water to weight down on them. They breathe more air and start twisting to form half-hearted curls. Why has he paid attention to that? Because it is less familiar than the contents of his glass which he has studied intensely already.

Interesting – he has only ever seen her fully alert. She has never even gotten really drunk in front of him, let alone fallen asleep. She is usually out of the bed and on her way to her own home as soon as she deems her business here is finished. Grantaire has wished once that she would stay longer, at least a touch more than necessary. At least long enough to feed the illusion that she doesn't find him so unpleasant to be with. But by now he has accepted her terms. Yet at this opportunity to see her unguarded his curiosity is peaked.

The angle is such that he has to kneel to see at least a little of her face. She is not more peaceful in sleep. In fact, there is a crease on her forehead and he wonders about the particular thing causing it. Or perhaps it is life in general.

Why has she stayed the night? It cannot be out of concern for his pathetic drunken self can it? Surely not. There is something she needs. She would not be here if she had anywhere better to be. Perhaps it is too cold where she lives or perhaps she has been thrown out. Perhaps she wants to ask him for something – money? – and she doesn't want to risk missing him so she has decided to wait for him to wake. He can easily discover the reason if he wakes her up but he doesn't want to just yet. It is morning and the rain is gone and there is something odd about this setup. It is uncommon for the two of them and he is strangely worried about the awkwardness of it if they are both awake to acknowledge it. She belongs to his rainy nights when the play of shadows across their features hides any real emotions and the whispers of the rain twist and mingle with their words so that they could mean anything. He will rather talk to her in the evening if she is still here than wake her now and break their routine.

Following a whim, he lets her sleep, leaves a note on the table saying simply "Eat" and, after cleaning himself up a bit and putting on fresh clothes, goes out. When he comes back, it is already dark. He half hopes, half expects to find her still there. After all, whatever reason has made her wait for what could have been hours and then spend the night on a chair in his room is not completely unlikely to keep her there again until his return. However, when he sees that she is gone, he is more disappointed than he has anticipated. He is alone again and that has not been his wish. She has tidied up and cleaned, perhaps as payment for the chair she slept on and the little food she has taken this morning. Stupid proud girl. He only vaguely remembers his comments from last night but they must have cut deeper than he has realized or, indeed, intended.

He is relatively sober still so he takes out a bottle of absinthe with sudden urgency. With the knowledge he will be left in his own company, his thoughts rush in to suffocate him. He tries to ward them off by taking a quick gulp of the green liquid like it's the antidote to a fast-acting poison that he is trying to stop before it spreads to his heart. But even as he does it, he knows his heart is doomed already. He keeps drinking the way a man with a heart-attack clutches his chest – it is a futile gesture that helps nothing but one cannot fight the instinct.

It is late when there is a knock on his door. He freezes, half-wondering if he has imagined it but the noise comes again and he eventually opens the door to find her standing there. Her face is carefully neutral but he can sense defiance in the curve of her lips and there is anger burning behind her eyes. At him or something else, he is not sure.

"I need somewhere to stay for a few days and I have no money," she says flatly. "What would it take?"

He steps aside wordlessly to let her in. She hesitates but enters before spinning around to face him.

"I don't want your charity. If I don't have anything you want, I'll go."

"You mean to tell me that you have lived this life and you have never taken anything for free? Never taken advantage? No help from anyone? No charity at all?"

"I don't want it from you."

He almost snarls.

"You think it wise to insult the man you're asking for help?"

"I'm not asking you for help. I am offering you a deal. I cleaned this mess as payment for last night and the food and I deem it enough on top of the fact that you were so drunk you might easily have had to sleep outside if I weren't here. But if you disagree with me on that, you better make your demands now. I don't want to owe you anything."

He sighs, momentarily tired.

"You owe me nothing. Come have dinner."

"No. Not before you name your price."

"My price? What can you offer me? I don't want to sleep with you."

"You never had a problem before."

"Do you think men never feel disinclination?"

"Would you be feeling disinclined if your golden statue was here?"

He raises a hand as if to hit her and she backs up instinctively, stumbling and falling on the bed. But Grantaire's fingers only clench spasmodically into a fist before he lowers his hand. For a few long moments they glare at each other across the room, both breathing heavily and both alert and prepared, like cats ready to spring on each other. Finally, Grantaire turns away.

"The one pure thing in my life and you have to drag it through the mud." Suddenly he laughs. "Oh, I see now. How fitting! That's what I deserve, is it not? That is what I've always done. Taking pure things and covering them with dirt until they can't shine anymore. That's what I did and I thought it didn't matter because Life always does the same anyway. And I was right. Either Life has gotten to him or Death has and I don't know which is worse." He pauses. "Stay. You will repay me later. When you can."

She looks doubtful but she eventually nods. He figures she has no choice or she wouldn't be here.

She shares his dinner and a small glass of absinthe but no more. He manages to convince her that having shared a bed so many times it would be foolish for either of them not to sleep in it. He can tell she is exhausted and one more night by the window would do nothing to help her earn the money she needs so she eventually undresses and lies down with her back to him, evidently still angry and uncomfortable with where she is. Grantaire sighs and rolls over to the other side. He has never wanted to touch her as much as tonight. But the kind of touch she will allow is not what he needs and her resentment puts him off completely.

The room is strangely quiet and he wishes it would rain.

**End Note:** Encouragement, please?


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Thanks again to everyone who is reading and to those of you who take the time to comment. I'm glad you find Grantaire to be in character and Suzanne not to be a Mary-Sue – that, after all, was the whole purpose of this. I am curious as much as all of you how Enjolras will turn out. We'll see.

**7.**

The house is handsome, at a central location, but not oversized or pretentious. Combeferre would never allow it to be. Still, Grantaire feels awkward standing at the doorstep in a way he has never felt a few years ago when visiting the medical student's small and humble rooms.

Combeferre has only graduated the previous year, his hard work and concentration taking him through his studies much quicker than Grantaire has deemed worth finishing his own. He hasn't had to look for work as a doctor. Ferdinand-Philippe's offer of a political career has come even before his diploma.

As far as Grantaire knows, the two men have first met shortly after the quiet, bloodless fall of the republic, when the returning prince has sought contact with the former revolutionaries. Combeferre, Grantaire now realizes, has merely been trying to salvage as much as possible of what his friends have been attempting to build. Based on what has been previously known of the prince's persona – his sympathies for the proletariat and the students – it is likely that Combeferre, with his belief in human nature, has thought that the newly forged king might help. Perhaps his faith has not been completely misplaced. It seems that Ferdinand-Philippe has not yet betrayed his trust and there are tentative attempts at reforms in the interest of the common worker. Grantaire is not in any hurry to believe such promises but at least it seems that for now his friend is not in danger of being prosecuted for his republican ideas. This puts the cynic's mind slightly more at ease and makes the house, albeit commissioned by the king, seem more like a home than a trap.

And still, it sets them worlds apart. Especially when, as he has expected, the door is opened by a housekeeper. The thought of Combeferre having a housekeeper is strangely disconcerting. Something of the simplicity and immediacy of their old camaraderie is lost by putting another person on the way of them seeing each other. It is no surprise, of course, but it doesn't help Grantaire's impression of being left behind.

The woman in question is pleasant, not young but not old, and she thankfully does not have the air of a servant – the idea of Combeferre being humbly waited upon is nearly unthinkable and Grantaire has only tried to entertain it for a short time when the shocking news of his friend's career choice has first reached him.

Mme. Combeferre appears close behind the housekeeper to confirm that her husband is late but is expected back at any moment. Then Grantaire is seated, offered a drink and tended to quite warmly. To his relief, the young woman converses with him freely – more so, perhaps, than Combeferre himself. And seemingly without a hint of accusation. Grantaire, predisposed to feel charitable, attributes this to lack of excessive protectiveness rather than lack of devotion or sympathy for her husband's troubles with his friends. She looks him in the eyes when she speaks and there is something open in her expression that he likes.

He briefly contemplates all of his friends' choices of women and, even put through the sieve of his cynicism, finds them all rather fitting. Marius with his dream-girl, air-headed enough to stand on his cloud; Joly with his charmingly capricious Musichetta who, for all of her airs and demands, readily accepts his quirks; Combeferre and this diligent, steadfast creature who seems to be his equal in intellect. And, of course, Courfeyrac, whose luck seems to have found him when he wasn't looking. Grantaire has not made the mistake of taking his young wife's playfulness for flippancy. To his surprise, he likes her better than he has expected. He has feared some possessive witch who would seek to control him or some idiot of a girl he would soon grow tired of. Jacqueline Courfeyrac is neither. She seems smart and perceptive, and she knows her own worth so perhaps, Grantaire thinks, the union might last despite the circumstances it's been forged in. He would have to wait and see. Courfeyrac certainly seems happy but he is still thrilled with the novelty of the marriage game and there is yet time to grow weary of it once he fully realizes its responsibilities.

But is everyone now looking for one person to complete them where they have all before completed each other? And who could ever complete a creature such as him who has not even half a soul to offer? Enjolras, Enjolras has been the other half of everything - the counterpart to Courfeyrac's vibrancy, Combeferre's mildness, Prouvaire's timidity and Bahorel's recklessness, to Joly's worriedness and Lesgle's clumsiness, to Feuilly's exuberance, Pontmercy's air-headedness and Grantaire's cynicism. Enjolras has been the glue to connect them and his departure has left Grantaire, who has long ago given what little soul he's ever had to these boys, scattered like a broken glass with no chance to pick up the pieces.

All of this passes through his head while he is half-heartedly attempting to amuse his hostess with inventive allegories. She laughs and responds in kind and he would be enjoying himself and feeling pleased to be paid attention by a beautiful woman if not for the things weighing on his mind.

It isn't long before Combeferre is back and she leaves them to their own talk. Grantaire almost wishes she would stay. He is nearly afraid of this conversation.

"Did you wait long?" Combeferre asks seating himself in the vacated seat opposite him. "I would have hurried if I had known you meant to call."

"Not too long. Your wife made me quite comfortable. She offers charming company."

Combeferre beams like a man in love – an expression Grantaire is not accustomed to seeing on his features but not necessarily unsuitable. At least it is not the same as Marius's completely dazed look which usually suggests that the young man's brain has just climbed out of his ears and is taking a stroll.

"Martine enjoys guests," Combeferre informs him. "And she is quite curious about my old friends."

"We were quire a curious crowd," Grantaire agrees, letting his lips stretch into something like a grin and eliciting a small chuckle from the other man. There is a long pause before he speaks again. "I have come to see how you are but I have also come to speak about Enjolras."

Combeferre looks up startled from his cup of coffee, then evades his gaze.

"I told you all I could. More than I could."

"I want his address."

Combeferre's eyes widen in surprise, both at the demand itself and the firmness behind it. Grantaire himself has not expected the note of command in his own voice but he refuses to dwell on it lest he lose it.

"I cannot give you that," Combeferre says.

"Why not? What harm would it do?"

"He has not authorized me to. I can write to him and ask… If you want me to tell him something from you, I'm sure I can include it in my next…"

Grantaire makes a frustrated noise, interrupting the other man.

"I do not want to write to him! I want to see him."

Combeferre stares at him in confusion. At first it seems like he is going to point out the obvious fact that Enjolras is not in Paris but then he catches Grantaire's gaze and he understands.

"In America?" he asks quietly. "You mean to go to America?"

It takes all of Grantaire's courage to nod. Spoken out loud it sounds even more preposterous than it does in his head. He doesn't know how he has managed to work up enough determination to even consider such a thing but he knows he can't stay here anymore and feel helpless and _not know_. Not know what has become of their fire and light. Of the boy who has led him and France into a dream and then left him to wake up alone. Of the man who has carried away the last of his love and devotion. It might be completely desperate and foolish but who cares? Who will miss him when he goes? What does he have to keep him here?

He braces himself for the argument that will inevitably follow. He has rehearsed it in his head. Combeferre pointing out that his idea is pure idiocy, that he does not have the means, that Enjolras does not want to be bothered, that the address may not even be the same anymore. All perfectly reasonable arguments and none of them enough. Grantaire knows he has lost his reason. Part of him rejoices in that fact. Madness does not hopelessly search for meaning. So he waits for Combeferre's protest with the unnatural calm of a man who has no counter-argument and no need for it.

But Combeferre just looks at him for a long time, his eyes full of something Grantaire finds hard to identify. Then he strides over to the other side of the room and unlocks a writing desk. Finding a letter containing the address he desires, he carefully copies it on a fresh piece of paper and carries it over to Grantaire. Grantaire takes it cautiously, hesitantly, caught off-guard by this unexpected cooperation. The paper feels strange in his hand. He almost feels like it may burst in flames to hide the whereabouts of the man he is looking for, if that man does not desire to be found. He finally looks down and reads the few lines, instantly committing them to memory. He will not forget. Even if he loses the address he will not forget it. He will sooner forget his own name.

He looks up when Combeferre's palm falls on top of his. His friend finally speaks –three words, quiet but heavy with emotion.

"Bring him home."

**End Note: **That button below is very helpful.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Strangely, this chapter was written after the next one so I now have another chapter in store to be posted soon. Encouraging me to proof-read is appreciated. For those of you who detest long patches of prose without much dialogue, please bear with Suzanne for this one – I felt it needed to be written and it's not a terribly long chapter.

**8.**

It's a busy night despite the cold. Sailors. Suzanne's rational mind is thankful for them as she needs the money but they are not her favourite company. Most of them are so drunk that they end up falling over her and she can barely understand what they are saying. She remembers Lucile again. Lucile has tolerated sailors better – her younger brother has died at sea and perhaps she has been translating some of her affection for him to a certain amount of sympathy for other men of his trade. She has laughed at their roughness and clumsiness and at the younger Susu's annoyance with them. Ah, another reason to miss her – Lucile has made Suzanne feel her real age, maybe even less, despite what the mirror has been showing. She has sometimes wondered what her older friend has been like in her own youth, both in appearance and character. When she has met her, Lucile has already had a few teeth missing, the remaining ones bearing the evidence of chewing cheap tobacco. Her blond strands have been getting wispy and losing their colour. Her eyes have watered a lot, but sometimes their pale blue would clear and Suzanne would manage to imagine them on the face of a younger girl. Especially when the sailors would come in large groups and Lucile would drink and sing with them - mostly dirty sailor songs, but sometimes, in the midst of the cacophony, she would pick up some surprisingly sad and beautiful tune, maybe in memory of her brother, and her voice would acquire almost child-like fragility.

Lucile has offered something like glimpses of light in the gutter. Like the reflections of stars in a puddle. As if the water fallen down from the sky remembers being up there with them and keeps their ghostly image. That's what Lucile has been – not true light but a loving memory of such, and Suzanne has loved her for it, despite the pain it sometimes brings to be reminded of light in places where it doesn't reach. She regrets being unable to honour her memory properly. She hasn't had the money to provide anything better than a common grave, and what good would it have done anyway when nearly no one would visit it? 'If I died', she has told Grantaire once, 'I would want a little girl named after me who would have a better life.' She thinks Lucile would have liked that too but she cannot provide a little girl, let alone a better life for one. She can't even replicate that gentle illumination her friend has somehow managed. It has disappeared from the world, gone to the dogs in a street called just that. All Suzanne has now is a memory of a memory and that really isn't enough to make her endure the crudeness and stupidity of the flock of shouting, spitting and cursing men around her much better. So when a client appears who is evidently not a sailor and, in fact, does not shout, she welcomes him with an unwise amount of relief. Especially when he offers to take her to his apartment, and after walking for two streets stops a cab for that purpose.

Climbing into the cab and relaxing into the seat, Suzanne mentally sighs. She doesn't know how long the ride will take and she wonders if she should try to make small talk. She is tired and would rather spare herself the mental effort of speaking to a stranger. She has the usual arsenal of would-be flirtatious rubbish whores sometimes use when they have to pass the time it takes to get from one location to another without the man with them losing interest. _What do you do? Oh, how interesting._ Followed by a sexual reference to his work. If he volunteers information, pretend to be interested and find whatever he is saying attractive. If he doesn't, make a flattering comment about his appearance even if there is nothing to flatter. Say you like his beard, tell him how it makes him look like a real man.

Generally, this sort of thing is for higher ranking prostitutes and she rarely uses it. Men who engage her have not come to hear her talk and would, in fact, rather not. But even the likes of her have to woo clients with compliments sometimes so she knows the basics. It's an easy enough routine and she has used it whenever talking has seemed to be in order. Except, she remembers, with Grantaire. With him – and she suddenly finds this incredibly amusing, almost to the point of chuckling out loud – with him she has first talked about politics. Imagine that – a whore and her client politely discussing state affairs. Ferdinand-Philippe. The republic. The monarchy. It's hilariously unbecoming, but then, Grantaire does possess a strange talent for contradiction and enjoys the juxtaposition of things that seem to clash rather badly. He can be blunt about the finest of things and refined when the situation is anything but. He uses coarse language but never in bed and speaks eloquently but rarely of anything important.

The week and a half she has spent living with him has been strange. She has worked as much as possible to get the money she needs and she has been entirely sick of men. Perhaps that has been evident to him because they have slept in his bed together quite chastely for the duration of her stay. She hasn't asked for it but she hasn't had the strength to object – by the time she would come back to his room at night she would only want to sleep. He has ventured some attempts at conversation on occasion but otherwise hasn't bothered her. Ironically, this very fact has bothered her even more. Oddly, he is the man she finds hardest to please. Sometimes he is too aware of her. That unnerves her. Normally, when she goes to him on a rainy night for food and shelter, she wants to have a way to pay for it. But if she is too tired and irritated, he only talks until she initiates something and if he goes along with the arrangement, it seems to be more for her peace of mind that anything else. It's a strange sort of courtesy she isn't used to. At the same time, in his worst moods, his remarks enrage and irritate her to the point where she is barely keeping from hitting him over the head with a chair.

She has only seen him once lately and that has been with the intention to give him part of the money she owes him. He has sighed and pushed her hand away with such a bitter 'please, don't' that she hasn't tried again. But it has made her feel uneasy and she has more or less been avoiding him since, even if she somewhat misses the occasional conversation about things other than sex or the everyday discomforts of life.

Luckily, judging by his manner, this client will not demand any conversation from her of any kind. He is sitting opposite her, features obscured by the rim of his hat, and she can't tell if he is watching her or not. Either way, he is mostly silent, only replying with one or two words to the few baits she throws at him. She quickly gives up, rather glad for the break, and turns to the window to watch the street lights flash by in the dark.

The decision to call a cab has surprised her but she can't complain. It's cold so she'd rather be in it than out walking. Still, it's unusual. Especially when they stop after a while and she is informed they still have a little way to walk. The man excuses himself with not having quite enough money on his person for the full distance but, as he assures her, he has more than enough in his home for an evening's entertainment. She shrugs and follows him. It's not like she will give up the job now – she's on the other side of town already. She dreads the long walk back though. Her feet hurt and she just wants to go home as soon as possible. This will be her final client for tonight. She wraps the shawl tighter around herself over her thinning coat, the coldness hitting her harder after the warmer air in the coupe. She grimaces but at least the cold seems to render her more awake. She looks around and finds that she cannot immediately tell her location. This troubles her as she does not expect to be escorted back. The feeling gets worse as the streets they go through get darker and darker, with fewer lights and more piles of garbage.

"Where are we?" she asks as they are about to enter a really dark little alley.

"Not long now," her companion assures her but Suzanne is decidedly uneasy by now. She avoids dark streets even if this is somewhat unusual in her trade. If she loses grip on her mind for a moment, such places fill her with terror and images of knifes and blood flash in her head as if they are not imagined but lifted directly from the glassy eyes of her lost friend. She shudders and reaches into her pocket. There is a box of congreves she keeps there. She stops, lights one and lifts it to see the faded sign which announces the location. She has to squint in the limited light to see it. Behind her she hears the footsteps of her companion, an odd little rustle of fabric, and a quiet 'put that out', right as she finally deciphers the old letters. _Rue des Chiens._ Her blood runs cold and she turns around with the little ball of light in her hand in time to see the glint of a knife.

**End Note:** Thank you for your opinions, encouragement, analysis and everything else. You _will_ get the next one fairly soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **For those of you who are alarmed – don't worry, Jack the Ripper's older French cousin will not become the main focus of the story, this is still about Grantaire, Enjolras and the Amis.

**9.**

It is so early that there is nearly no one on the streets. The streetlights are still burning, their yellow glow mixing with the cold moody light of a February dawn. A curtain of drizzle hangs in the air more like mist than rain. Grantaire cuts through it with his head bowed, a travel bag in each hand and a satchel over his shoulder. It's very little baggage for such a trip but he has money to buy what he needs on the way. A big portion of that money is not his – it belongs to Combeferre who has insisted upon at least partially financing the trip, probably guessing that Grantaire would be very hard-pressed to find the means for it. The rest is what would have otherwise been used for his rent. He has given up the apartment. He will be gone for more than six months, paying for it in his absence would be ridiculous. Most of what he owns now resides with Courfeyrac who has accepted to keep his things but has declared him mad multiple times. He is correct, of course. Hurrying through the damp streets to catch the early diligence for Le Havre, Grantaire can still not believe what he is doing. Yet it is too late to turn back now.

He stops to rest and readjust his grip on the bags. He closes his eyes briefly and listens for the silence of the empty streets, hoping that it would help him clear and organize his mind. Unexpectedly, he realizes that the morning is no longer as still and quiet as a minute ago. There is the sound of running feet approaching him. He opens his eyes and turns towards the noise just in time to see a tattered figure emerge from an alley and stop a few meters from him as if frozen. His eyebrows jump up in surprise, then furrow in confusion. It's his very own ever-so-opinionated ragdoll making a rather unexpected appearance.

"Were you looking for me or shall I consider it a bizarre coincidence that we meet on an empty street at this hour of the morning?" he asks. Even as he speaks, he realizes something is wrong. Her hair is in an unusual amount of disarray, her eyes are wide and panicked and he notices a trickle of blood mixing with rainwater on her arm but he can't see a wound. The tail ends of her shawl are bunched in her hands and her fingers are gripping the small ball of fabric so tight that they are white. His frown deepens.

"What is wrong?"

She unfreezes and comes forward hurriedly to close the remaining distance between them. Now that she's standing inches away, the fear is even more evident in her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is down to a hoarse whisper.

"Where are you going?" she asks urgently. "Your concierge said…"

He senses barely contained panic emanating from her and it immediately puts him on edge as well.

"To Le Havre," he answers, "and then on a ship to America as the concierge would have told you. I am nearly late for the diligence. What has happened?"

She gives a small panicked noise, clamps a hand over her mouth and shakes her head quickly, whispering so quietly behind her hand that he barely catches it.

"_You can't leave now, you can't, you can't, you have to help me, they'll kill me! Or he will, if he finds me first…" _

To his complete shock, she sinks to her knees, not crying but staring in terror somewhere into the middle distance. Grantaire has never seen her so out of her mind and he is beginning to fear learning what has gotten her into such a state. Running late, quite disturbed and completely confused, he looks around helplessly but neither aid nor any kind of explanation comes from the gray walls around them. He crouches down to her level.

"I cannot help you unless you tell me what is wrong."

She looks up at him.

"Not here." She looks around quickly. "I shouldn't be here. Please, not on the main street."

She gets up and scuttles to a side alley where the back entrance of a café is situated. She stands beside a pile of garbage which hides her from the street. Grantaire follows reluctantly – his instincts are telling him this is something he does not want to get involved in and if he does not hurry he will miss the diligence and, consequently, his ship. She makes a visible effort to collect herself but when she tries to explain, her voice still hitches and trembles and her speech is disjointed.

"A client… picked me up yesterday… S-said he would take me to his rooms… We walked a little… then he stopped a cab. That surprised me, b-but it was a cold night… When we got off it was somewhere I didn't immediately recognize… It was very dark. He said we still had some distance to walk… I asked why we hadn't stopped at his lodgings and he s-said he didn't have enough money for the whole ride on him but he had some at home… Said it wasn't far… I w-went with him but something didn't feel r-right… We were p-passing very dark streets and t-there was no one… Then I… r-read the n-name of the s-street… and… and I knew… it was the same as… I'd never gone there b-but… I r-remembered t-he name… It was d-dark and I… I wanted to see… had a b-box of congreves so I l-lit one and I saw… the name… they said that w-was where they f-found her b-body… and I-I…"

She stops, her breath coming in short gasps. She has stuttered so badly the last few sentences and spoken so quickly that he has barely understood her. He still doesn't fully comprehend what is going on but his blood is starting to chill.

"Whose body?" he asks urgently.

She takes a few quick breathes.

"L-Lucile. S-she was… m-my friend… Almost t-two years ago s-she was m-murdered… on the street… that street… t-they never found w-who… b-but now I know it was h-him… The congreve… I turned and threw it in his f-face… He had a knife… He had a knife…" She takes a few more breathes and her voice grows more hollow but steadier. "He had a knife. He was going to slit my throat, like he did with her. He had it ready but he didn't expect me to turn and the flame in his eyes blinded him for a moment so he lost his balance. His hand slipped. The hit didn't fall where he was aiming. Gave me a chance to get the knife and I did. And I stabbed him. Twice. I don't know how bad but he was still standing. When I ran he followed me. Couldn't catch up but when I reached a busier street with people, he dragged behind me and started screaming murder. I managed to get away but now they will be looking for me. He made it look like… I had…"

He now looks closer and realizes that she is still clutching the knife she has mentioned, hidden beneath her scarf. He instinctively recoils a bit.

"He killed my friend…" she whispers. "He killed her, he tried to kill me, and they will be looking for _me_. They'll have me guillotined if he dies, Grantaire. Who will believe me? I didn't know where to go so I…"

She falters and falls silent. Grantaire is stunned. At first his mind struggles to process the story, then he finds himself wondering if it is possible that her distress is a spectacle to cover the fact that she has really robbed and stabbed someone. The tale she's telling seems far-fetched and convoluted. She evidently reads his doubt in his eyes because she staggers back, her expression desperate.

"You don't believe me…"

Grantaire hesitates a moment, then makes up his mind. Everything he knows about her coupled with her state and behavior at the moment makes it hard to imagine she's lying.

"I believe you…" he says, then pauses and checks his watch. There is time still to the diligence but very little. He is torn. If he stays not only will he miss the ship but he won't be able to do much. At worst, he will be arrested for helping a criminal. She is right – it is very likely no one will believe her. What are the options? He can try asking Combeferre to use his connections to help but there is no guarantee that this will work. He can ask those of his acquaintances who are studying law for advice. This does not sound too promising either. "Come with me," he says finally. "But we'll have to run. If we make it, I will take you as far as Le Havre. But you will be on your own after that. My ship leaves tomorrow morning. And, by the Devil, drop this!"

Her eyes widen in surprise at his offer but she nods quickly, throws the knife in the garbage pile and follows him when he picks up his bags again and sprints down the street.

They make it only barely but they are lucky enough not to encounter any obstacles on the way, including any police, if they are indeed looking for her. For the last two streets she falls behind and he has to move one bag under his arm and pull her after him. By the time they are there, she looks about ready to collapse but to his relief she spares him that one trouble.

Thankfully, the coupe is all but empty, save for an elderly gentleman who is already snoring in his seat. Grantaire pays for himself and his companion and reclines in his seat in some relief as they start moving almost immediately. He is lost in thought until he feels her shiver next to him. He glances to his right and freezes. Her hands, which have been holding the black shawl tightly around her until now, have slipped down slightly, revealing a red stain. His first thought is that if the other passenger wakes up and sees it, they will be in trouble. He quickly turns in his seat in a way that allows him to shield her somewhat from the eyes of the old man, should he open them. Then he reaches down and moves her hands further away, wanting to take a better look. She starts and her head snaps up from where she has been resting her forehead on the frame of the window and turns to look at him in some alarm. She cannot be more alarmed than he is. What he has assumed to be a stain of blood from the man she has stabbed is in fact centered around a tear in the fabric of her coat. _The hit didn't fall where he was aiming_, she has said, but it has apparently fallen _somewhere_. If he has been worried before, now he is scared. Scared for her as the thought of watching a young woman die this way horrifies him, and scared for himself as he will have a world of trouble explaining a dead body. He wants to ask questions. They have hours of travel ahead of them and he doesn't know how serious it is. But he cannot risk discussing it now with another man sitting so close. He takes his coat off and wraps it around her. It will have the dual effect of keeping her warm and covering the blood. She gives him a look which might be grateful but he isn't sure, and turns to the window again.

Grantaire observes her concernedly for a while, not knowing if he should try to do something to make her more comfortable or if she would allow him to. She seems to be his opposite in many ways. When troubled or wounded, his instinct is to seek company, sometimes to a point where he is embarrassed by his own neediness. By contrast, she mostly closes herself off and wants to be left alone. He doesn't know if it's a natural part of her character or simply the result of being forced to deal with too many strangers invading her space. He suppresses a small bitter laugh. Another game of the gods – the two of them have mainly met each other when they have been most upset – when he has felt the strongest need for interaction and she has wanted most to shield herself. It hasn't always been obvious – she has done her bit of chatting, sometimes, he believes, even with interest. But she has only come to him when she has either had no better option or no choice at all. In a good mood she can tolerate him well enough but when sensing she has no alternative – and that has been most of the time – she immediately starts acting like she is repulsed by him. She probably is – just hides it better on occasion. What else can he do but laugh at the irony of getting a companion when he has wanted one, only for both of them to be dissatisfied with the interaction?

But now, Grantaire realizes, whatever relationship they have had will have to end. She may have disappeared anyway by the time he would have come back from America but it has not been as certain that he would not see her as it is now. If she is to leave Paris, then their paths have diverged for good. He has vaguely wished the last two weeks that she would come looking for him before his departure so he could say farewell – it has seemed appropriate. But the current situation is not what he could have ever imagined. _You that way; we this way_, his mind supplies, and along with the quote comes the familiar feeling of waste, of nothing accomplished. He tries to find some purpose, some reason for two souls such as them to have met and parted in the span of slightly more than a year. Have they left any mark on each other? Have they helped each other in any way that matters? What would Combeferre say? Or Jehan Prouvaire with his convictions about Fate? Perhaps it has all been for the purpose of him being here on this day to get her out of trouble. If that is the case, he is not sorry – at least there is one person in the world he has been useful to. He only wishes that, for once, she would not despise him for it.

**End Note:** I'm really dying to hear your thoughts. I have no more chapters in store but with a little encouragement I could write you one ;P.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **Next chapter: Enjolras! Now tell me if you didn't squee at that. I _know_ the pretty boy is all you care about, you rascals. Just kidding, I want you to meet him too but the story goes as it goes.

**10.**

The ride has been something of a torture – long and bumpy and stiffening. They have picked up more people on the way and Suzanne has spent almost all of the time huddled in her corner by the window, covered by Grantaire's coat and worrying about someone noticing something suspicious – a spatter of blood or something else. People have asked her at least twice if she is feeling all right. She has stuttered some quick explanation about having just recovered from an illness. She has gotten off the coach twice, out of necessity but very nervously and rather painfully. The wound which she has managed to ignore at first, on account of fear overpowering all other senses, has gradually become sharply noticeable. She knows she looks peculiar with Grantaire's coat still wrapped tightly around her on top of her own but she has to hide the blood. He has thankfully produced a second one for himself out of his luggage – getting out in only a shirt and vest would have definitely raised some suspicion. She has noticed absently that after disappearing for a short time during several of the stops his baggage has increased by two additional bags. She is secretly hoping that he has thought of getting her at least some kind of change of clothes – this much blood would be nearly impossible to wash off. The knowledge that she is relying entirely on his kindness with no chance of ever repaying it is a heavy weight somewhere at the back of her mind. But it is now a matter of survival and she is prepared to beg if she has to, even if this has gone far beyond any favour.

She is feeling faint by the time they finally arrive, and extremely grateful to be off the diligence. She is also thankful it is dark already so the chances of anyone noticing them are smaller. Grantaire somehow manages to carry all of the bags while she tries to keep up with him hardly paying attention to the world around. She is focused on not collapsing and hardly notices how and when they have arrived at a small room. The woman who has shown them here places a burning gas lamp on the table and leaves them. Suzanne sinks to the bed, hands still clutching the coat around her, and blinks a few times, only now taking any notice of her surroundings. Grantaire places the bags on the floor and heaves a sigh which sounds like it has been suppressed for a long time. He sits on one of the two chairs by the table and silently rubs his forehead for a few moments before pushing himself up again.

"All right. How bad is it? Do we need to find a doctor?"

"I don't-" Suzanne begins and is shocked by how faint her voice sounds. She clears her throat and tries a bit louder. "I don't know."

Grantaire sighs again.

"Take this off, let me look at you."

The phrase sounds very strange in her ears. She has heard it before from various men in much gruffer voices and in much different circumstances. Grantaire's tone is mild but in the first second she pushes his hand away with some irritation as he reaches to take the coat off her shoulders. For a moment, her slightly foggy brain can only register that she wants to be left alone and her fingers briefly grip the fabric tighter before reason settles in and she reluctantly lets go. She glances at Grantaire who is giving her a reproachful look.

"I'm only trying to help."

She expels a tired little sigh of her own.

"I know. I'm sorry. Thank you."

His face softens and he nods briefly before reaching again to remove the coat and toss it on the floor. She shivers a little with the sudden change of temperature but lets her shawl slide off her shoulders, looking down at herself with some apprehension. On the front of her own coat of nondescript gray, the deceptively small tear is barely noticeable in the middle of the bloodstain. This can't all be her blood or she should have been dead long ago. At least some of it must belong to her attacker.

She looks up to see why Grantaire has paused just as he picks up her shawl and drapes it back around her shoulders.

"I should have thought to light the fire first," he mutters. "It's cold." He strides across the room and busies himself with the fire for a few minutes. Suzanne shuffles a little on the bed so she can lean sideways on the wall which the headboard is pushed to and her eyelids drift closed. She opens them again when she hears him return. Removing her coat is slightly painful and she feels vulnerable each time she has to move her arms from where they are folded protectively over the wound. The front of her dress is covered in dried blood and she winces continuously as he helps her take it off. Her chemise is in an even worse state, the once-white material now dirty red-brown and seemingly merged with her skin. She doesn't look forward to the prospect of trying to pull it off. She is afraid she will reopen the wound which at least doesn't seem to be bleeding right now. Grantaire surveys her with a frown.

"We're better off with you not trying to get that off over your head," he concludes, picks one of the bags and places it on the table but stops before opening it, giving her an apprehensive look.

"Su, I'm going to take a knife out now. Don't get any silly ideas into your head, I won't hurt you."

Her heart pounds in her chest at the mention of a knife and she instinctively edges back.

"I think I'm fine just taking it off…" Her own voice sounds too high and sharp in her ears.

Another sigh from him.

"No, you're probably not fine just taking it off, you'll reopen the wound and, judging by the amount of blood on your clothes, you don't want to bleed any more. What am I supposed to explain to the doctor – if I find one in the middle of the night – when I take him to an unconscious woman with a knife wound?"

She bites her lip, terror that is all too fresh in her mind fighting with rationality. He spreads his arms in an imploring gesture.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

There is another pause.

"Fine," she says finally, trying to reign in her emotions. Nevertheless she shivers when he produces a small knife and stays completely rigid as he uses it to cut and tear the fabric so it would be easier to remove. To his credit, he's both quick and careful, putting the blade back in his bag and out of sight when he's done. Suzanne allows herself to breathe a little more freely while he brings a pitcher of water and a bowl, produces a cloth from one of the other bags and starts gradually cleaning off the dried blood, the water helping to ease the material off. Once the wound is exposed, he seems to relax a little. Apparently, it's not as bad as he has feared. He resumes his work as there is still much to be washed. He moves with sureness and efficiency which surprise her until she remembers that his occupations include boxing and perhaps the occasional bar brawl. He must have had opportunities to exercise some very simple forms of doctoring – probably mostly on himself as he isn't exactly the type to have a hoard of mistresses fighting over which one gets to take care of him.

"On one of the rare occasions when we got caught together in the same fight," he begins, as if he has read her thoughts, "I once had to remove the remains of a broken bottle from Bahorel's arm on account of the man having two black eyes and a cracked head which prevented him from having the clear eyesight required. How well _I_ could see was also somewhat questionable since I had been drinking but the arm in question was fully in use after that, so I must have managed. Of course, I was rather thankful I didn't have to pull half a bottle out of his head, which was nearly the case." He stops and spares her a glance that carries a hint of uncertainly, as if he is wondering if he should shut up. Sober, he is more aware of what he is saying and how unwelcome it may be. His worries are, for once, unfounded. She is glad for the return of his customary aimless chatter. The silence has been oppressive. She snorts and decides to comment, as a way of encouraging him to continue.

"Quite the proper young lawyer, is he not?" she says. "I would like to imagine him in a court room. If he had graduated already and if I had the money, I might have hired him. I wonder if he would have broken the judge's nose for proclaiming me guilty."

Grantaire looks up from his task in some surprise and inclines his head to the side with a small smile.

"You know whom I'm talking about?"

She rolls her eyes.

"You have mentioned him more than enough times. And not just him. I bet I can recite a short biography for each of your old rebel friends. They are the only thing you talk about that makes any sort of sense."

He chuckles, slightly sadly.

"Funny, because they themselves seemed to possess so little of that. They appear to have cultivated some since then. Or perhaps just found women to supply sense for them."

The mood has changed, she realizes. The feeling is as familiar as the steps of a practiced dance routine. They have done this often enough in the past – going from an argument to joking and from complete silliness into a deeper, heavier atmosphere when one of them would suddenly say something about the world that holds an uncomfortable amount of truth. This time the change is for the better. She is content to hear about students brawling with each other – it's better than thinking about what lies behind or, indeed, ahead of her.

"It could have been worse," he says eventually, putting the bloodied cloth away. In the first second she doesn't realize he's referring to the cut on the right side of her abdomen – his declaration has come in the middle of a rather convoluted story involving a gambling debt. She realizes only now that she has left herself in his hands without paying much attention apart from automatically trying to cover winces and grimaces. She has been unconsciously reassured by his confidence and allowed her mind to drift. Probably for the better, she must admit – she feels too weak and tired to do much, and since he is sober, she reasons she can trust him not to be clumsy or unfocussed. His touch is familiar enough not to bother her and he has been careful. He has managed to clean the blood and get rid of the remains of her chemise, revealing a gaping red gash where the knife has sliced through her skin. She winces again but nods in agreement with him. Regardless of how ugly and scary it looks, she realizes it's not the worst she might have received.

"He could have gutted me," she notes with a shiver that is only half from the cold, and wraps her arms around her chest. Thankfully the room has warmed up somewhat.

"I am very impressed with you," Grantaire says quietly and turns around to rummage in a bag again, taking out linen and starting to tear pieces from it for bandages. Suzanne wonders if he has bought that on the way, predicting she would need it. It must be because it has come out of one of his new bags.

After he has dressed the wound he brings her some fresh water and a clean cloth and places the second new bag on the bed.

"You will want to look as normal as possible in order not to raise suspicion. The picture you and I presented today was not the best if one wants to avoid being traced. There are clean clothes for you inside and a few other things you will probably find necessary. Do you need my help or can you finish washing up on your own?"

"I think I will manage…" she says, secretly relieved. She has rather hoped he might find her a change of clothes but she cannot deny the fact that he could have easily dumped her anywhere or deposited her in front of a hospital rather than taking the task of treating her upon himself, wasting money on her and risking problems.

"Good." He starts picking up the bloodstained clothes and stuffing them in the bag that has the most space for them. "I'll bring up some food for you and then I'll go find somewhere to get rid of these."

He's out and back in a few minutes with a plate of food and a glass of wine. Then he takes the bag and goes out again.

Careful not to lift her right arm too much as it stretches the skin around the wound, Suzanne does her best to rinse the dirt of the road from herself, wishing she could pretend the water could wash away the events of the day as well. When she's done she opens the bag he has left for her and, as she starts taking things out, a faint 'Oh, Lord…' escapes her lips. The contents include, among other things, a coat, two newly-bought dresses, two chemises and a pair of shoes, all of it not particularly expensive but better than she usually can afford. She slips on a chemise carefully and walks to the table, hunger taking precedence over curiosity. She has felt queasy all day but now she is starving. Once the plate is cleaned, she returns to the bed to examine the rest of the items. The dresses are both dark – brown and green – good quality and suitably unnoticeable. She can tell they will both fit well. She guesses sharing a bed with a woman can teach a man what her size is but he still has to pay attention. Drunk or not, Grantaire often seems to notice more about the world than one might suspect but she has never before considered that this may apply to her person. She is even more shocked at the money. More money than she has ever seen in one place and a note saying 'Please, don't argue.' pinned to the purse. Either he is secretly very rich or this has been meant to pay for about half of his trip to America and back. She knows he can't have given up on going – she has known as soon as he has said the word 'America' who he is going there for and he has confirmed her guess on their way to the diligence. She can't imagine him discarding his plan to pursue his bright idol so for him this sacrifice must mean that once he gets there he would have to make the money to come back, if he is to come back at all. For her, the small fortune means a chance she couldn't have dreamed of to evade the police, disappear and perhaps manage to settle somewhere new. Her heart is in her throat. She wishes she didn't need this but she needs it so badly that saying no could be the end of her and _this_ much foolish pride she doesn't have. Grantaire has offered things in the past and not insisted on payment – a fact she has sometimes found irritating and insulting to her independence – but this last gesture is completely out of proportion. She doesn't know if these are the actions of a sentimental idiot, an incredibly kind man or a very close friend. Perhaps all three. When it gets down to it, she has never thought him unkind or unfriendly but being civil to a whore is a far cry from this. There can be nothing in it for him. The corners of her eyes are burning. What finally does it for her is a bronze vanity set, wrapped in a towel at the bottom of the bag. She stares at it, fingers pressed to her mouth until the image blurs and she realizes there are tears slipping down her cheeks. The ornate hair brush and mirror, while certainly not the most expensive items of their kind, are too unnecessarily pretty to have been purchased only for the practical need of a woman to brush her hair.

A present, she realizes. Not a favour, not things she would need to survive, but something picked simply as a vessel to carry someone's blessing. She strokes the metal back of the mirror and watches the light from the lamp and the fire glint off of it for what seems like ages before the door opens and Grantaire steps inside, an emptier-looking bag in his hand. He freezes when he sees her.

"What's wrong?"

She wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand and futilely tries to hold back more tears. On one hand, she's too embarrassed to acknowledge the enormity of what he is doing, being unable to do anything in return. On the other…

He crosses the room and kneels in front of the bed.

"Are you in pain?"

She shakes her head and reaches for his hand.

"Thank you."

"Oh… " His features relax into a slightly embarrassed smile – an expression she has never seen on him. It makes him look younger. Inexplicably, the smile also makes her cry harder. He gives her a helplessly confused look when her shoulders shake in another fit of silent sobs but she can't begin to explain. She is starting to feel acutely now that she is for the second time being left without her one friend. His testaments of genuine friendship prevent her from trying to convince herself, as she might have otherwise, that all she has lost is a little arrangement of mutual convenience. Her doubts of whether she can count on him have all been erased but only now when they are about to part and never see each other again and tomorrow she will be on her own and on the run with no one to turn to. She doesn't want to say all this because it looks horrible from the side – she needs him and he doesn't need her and it seems as if she has only started dreading losing his presence as soon as she has realized how useful he can be. And she doesn't want to ask him to stay and be refused.

"I'll miss you," she says instead, wiping her final tears away. She has no reasons to complain after all.

His eyes show genuine surprise at first and then, unexpectedly, sadness. He looks away and chews his lip, frowning. There is a long silence before he finally looks back at her.

"Come with me then?"

It almost sounds like a plea. When she stares at him, too shocked to answer, he continues, quietly, in a voice full of restrained hope – a feeling she recognizes all too well.

"I'm afraid to go alone. I'm afraid of what I might find or that I won't find anything. I'm afraid I won't know what to do and I'll do nothing… I need your help. No one will be looking for you there. The money in the bag will cover the journey and a bit more." He takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Please. I need you."

"But… What for?"

He inclines his head to the side with a tiny peculiar smile.

"You fight," he says simply.

She pauses long enough to marvel at the fact that he seems to think she could refuse – a notion which seems ridiculous to her. With his money she may have tried to get on a ship to America herself, except she doesn't know the language and without a more knowledgeable companion, she would have ended badly for sure. When she nods, he closes his eyes and there is a small breathy laugh at the end of a relieved sigh.

"You have the whole bed," he says softly, standing up. "I'm afraid if I sleep I may not wake up on time."

At the mention of sleep she suddenly feels just how desperate she is for it. She wants to lie down and fall asleep immediately but she takes care to repack her bag, wrapping the mirror and hair brush in the towel again but leaving them on top as she will need them in the morning. Her head is buzzing when she curls up carefully on her left side and draws the covers around her but exhaustion has the final say and she drifts off with a goodnight she is not sure if she has said or only thought.

**End Note: **Any thoughts, comments, questions or analysis? No, I am not ashamed of reminding you to review because it's the main motivation I get to write this. Grantaire is giving you a hopeful look. Say no, I dare you.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** All right, so Enjolras _is_ in this one but only for a very small bit at the end. More from him later.

**11.**

The journey across the ocean proves not as unpleasant as Grantaire has feared. For once, he feels smug and lucky when half of the ship's occupants spend a significant amount of time vomiting overboard while he and his companion seem to miraculously avoid falling victims to Mal de Mer. Perhaps they are too preoccupied. They have pretended to be a married couple out of practicality. Separate beds would have been a waste of money and the alternative would have involved too much unwanted gossip and attention from the good and proper bourgeois they are sharing their part of the ship with. But the pretense serves to remind them that they don't really know each other. They have barely remembered to tell each other their Christian names before boarding the ship so they wouldn't be caught stuttering if someone happens to ask. In the first two weeks on the ship, wanting to be prepared for questions people may ask out of politeness, they spend a lot of time sharing histories. Suzanne isn't overly dramatic when she talks about her life but the story speaks for itself.

"My parents were both very hot-headed," she tells him. "They got married too young, had me immediately and for twelve years fought as fiercely as they made love. I didn't think much of the scandals – they always eventually reconciled. Then when I was thirteen… I'm still not sure how it happened exactly, but rumors started flying about my mother and some man. They weren't true. I knew because I spent almost all of my time with mother at that time. But my father grew jealous and they started fighting a lot over it. He accused her of cheating. Eventually, my mother grew so furious that she told him she'd really cheated. Stupid, childish thing. I still find it hard to forgive either of them for the way they acted. He went completely mad, called her a whore and threw her out of the house, changed his will even so it would leave nothing to her. Scared me quite a bit. Enough for me to try to defend her. And then he accused me of covering up her affair. Then I got mad too and told him I was going with her. He promptly disinherited me and said he never wanted to see me again. I have no doubt he very soon reconsidered. He had a quick temper but was just as quick to regret it. I believe he meant to apologize and all would have been well if he had lived to do it. But he didn't. From what I could gather, not a week later he tried to find us but before he could, there was an accident. The carriage he was riding turned over and he broke his neck. He hadn't changed his will back yet. And then…" she shrugs. "We had nothing. We could not prove to anyone it had been a misunderstanding. Everything he owned went to a cousin of his who had never seen us, nor cared to. As far as he was concerned, we had somehow cause father's death. So the result of all this was that the world saw us as whores and that's what we eventually became. Mother went and poisoned herself soon after. I think it was more out of grief for my father than being unable to cope with life on the streets, even though she was more beautiful and somewhat more refined than I was ever meant to be. Either way, I couldn't quite forgive her that last act either. I've never had much sympathy for dying of love if it won't do a bit of good to anyone. I can understand sacrificing yourself to save someone but this kind of pointless insanity… In her final note she wrote she loved me." She huffs. "Fat lot of good that did me. Affection that doesn't even try to do anything isn't worth much, is it?"

He answers her with a wry smile that's cracking at the edges. He forgoes mentioning that affection that doesn't do anything is exactly what he is best at. In any case, he hasn't expected this kind of life story from her. He has thought her born on the streets. Perhaps she would have felt better if she had been, without memories of a different life and the curse of 'what if'. But this explains the glimpses of a better upbringing he has occasionally seen in her. And her character easily fits in with the description of her parents, with her occasional heated outbursts that he knows must often get her in trouble. Sadly, the whole tale is another proof that youth, love and passion in this world are often best suited for tragedy.

He is somewhat reluctant afterwards to speak of his own past. Perhaps he feels a little ashamed of how normal it seems by comparison. There is nothing suitably tragic in it to excuse his own sorry state.

He is the middle child of five and, while not unloved by his family, he has never been anyone's favourite. His older brother, the firstborn, is his father's pride and joy. His two sisters are closest to his mother's heart as she does not fully understand boys, and his youngest brother, like many children had by their parents late in life, is doted on by everyone. Grantaire readily admits the virtues of his siblings and has no quarrel with any of them but he is not particularly close to them either. He looks upon them with dutiful, slightly distanced tenderness but he has not seen much of them in adulthood. He has gone to the weddings of his older brother and sister and has thereupon answered his parents' slightly absent enquiries about his studies with a shrug and a wave of his hand. They send him his allowance regularly, humble as it is, and he is certain they will continue to send it unquestioningly until they die or until he writes to tell them to stop. They are kind to him and see that he is provided for, as much as their own means allow, but he feels as if he does not quite belong to them. As a boy, he has often longed to share with them some of those secret moments of true intimacy his brothers and sisters have experienced but he never has. When Suzanne asks if he regrets that very much, he laughs and says he has simply been appointed by Fate as the observer. After all, even the theatre of life wants its audience.

He has come to Paris willingly with the vague hope that in a city so big and colourful, he would be able to find a proper spot to fill. In those early days, his dreams and ambitions have been numerous, bursting bright like fireworks but dying just as quickly. He has been unable to follow through with any of them. Doubts and difficulties have arisen too quickly and he has never found the means and motivation to keep the flame alive. No one has been there to fan it either as he has had many acquaintances but no friends to really be invested in his dealings. His studies have been scattered, the same subjects sometimes undertaken with enthusiasm and interest, sometimes scorned and deemed useless. He has floated, unable to find direction or anything solid to hold on to. The purposelessness of his life has weighed on him heavily until he has wandered into the circle of the ABC friends and fallen in love with them. Contrary to how things are sometimes perceived, Enjolras has not been his sole focus. He has loved and admired him the most simply for being the power behind it all. It is clear to Grantaire that their young leader is what has brought the others together and awakened something within them. Something gloriously beautiful that may have well remained dormant if not for him. They may have met each other without his help, but they would likely have never formed such a sacred brotherhood. And then there would have never been such a definite 'us' for Grantaire to try to belong to. Thus, beyond his enlightening presence, Enjolras has gifted him with friends. The ABC has remained constant and real for longer than anything else in Grantaire's life. And they have allowed him in – each for their own reasons, but they have never turned him away. Their keen minds and kind hearts have, albeit absently, provided him with more warmth than he has received from anyone else. Their unique characters have kept his mind pleasantly occupied with their affairs. He has lived through them, with them and for them, until the revolution has broken the circle.

"Every time you start talking about yourself, you end up talking about them," Suzanne tells him once. He shrugs.

"I suppose there is simply very little me without them."

After all of these talks she is eventually capable of discussing his friends as if she knows them personally. He latches on to every opportunity to do that as the subject appeals to him greatly. Bahorel and Combeferre's prolonged disagreement, Courfeyrac's ability to be a husband and anything else concerning their lives is tenderly dissected and analyzed with a good amount of input from her. In return, he answers question. And oh, are there questions! Suzanne starts asking things rather hesitantly at first, reluctant as always to show her lack of knowledge on any subject, but as it doesn't occur to him to feel superior, she grows more comfortable. Eventually, Grantaire finds himself explaining the world away, from the workings of the government to the workings of the ship they're on and from the classical times he has studied to the age's scientific discoveries Combeferre has always gotten so excited over in the back room of the Café Musain.

Most of their journey passes in this fashion and it is fairly agreeable until the last week or so when doubts and worries start creeping upon both of them. Suzanne is suddenly afraid of the foreign country she knows so little about. Grantaire on his part dreads the outcome of his mission and can think of little else. After everything that has been put into this, what if he is unable to find Enjolras at all or if Enjolras completely refuses to see him? He has managed to keep such thoughts at bay for the past months, knowing that there is no way to turn the ship around, but now the enormity of it all hits him and his resolve to continue is faltering. To mask that, he drinks more and talks louder, with more aplomb and less sense for hours before a wave of depression replaces the exaltation and he slumps in the corner, cradling his bottle and giving in to dark reflections and predictions.

"I am a fool. Always have been and always will be," he mutters with a shake of his head one evening, only a few days before their arrival. He is in a particularly foul mood and this declaration is only the finale of a long tirade on the matter of Enjolras, America and his own foolishness. Suzanne, who is absently leafing through a sketchpad he has filled during some of the long hours of the journey, looks distinctly irritated.

"Are you quite finished?"

"Oh, very nearly," he answers with a dark chuckle. "After this final performance I do believe Grantaire will be quite finished. There will not be enough left to even…"

He is interrupted when a crumpled balled-up newspaper – one of the old ones they use to wrap things in – hits him in the face. He blinks startled at Suzanne who doesn't even seem to have looked up from the drawings she is examining.

"Grantaire. Shut up. Or go and throw yourself overboard if your life is so damn useless."

He blinks a few times, then looks at her with a hint of tired humour in his eyes.

"If I do that, there will be no one to translate for you."

"Well, then there's one thing you're good for," she answers dispassionately. "But if you continue your whining _I_ will have to throw myself overboard and you will be left without that one useful occupation. God, I've never heard of a man so incapable of following through with a job without throwing a fit! How is it that you get the option to be a lazy pathetic bastard and still survive? I wonder what that even feels like, I certainly don't have the luxury." When he gives and animated shrug, she tosses the sketchbook aside, crosses her arms and stares him down. "You are doing this for your Combeferre as well. He obviously wanted you to go. It is to a large extent his money that we are both spending and if you are a fool, he does not sound like one so perhaps there is some sense in all this. But even if there isn't… I am _tired_ of you, Grantaire, tired. You _will_ go through with this plan of yours. Even if it is the most idiotic thing anyone in the history of the world has ever done, you will still complete it so that you can say that there is one thing in your life you have properly started and finished, understand? Because if I have to watch this going back and forth on ideas and plans a little more, I will scream."

She doesn't wait for an answer from him but picks up her coat and exits, probably going to the deck. He blinks after her and opens his mouth but thinks better of it. He finishes his wine but is much quieter for the next few days.

When they get off the ship they continue together by unspoken agreement. On the ship initially there has been talk of finding her a place as a maid for some French-speaking family but neither of them mentions it once they are on dry land. Grantaire is not about to be the first one to raise the issue. He has gotten used to having a constant companion and the feeling is not at all unpleasant. In addition, her presence does a good job of keeping him on track.

That track eventually leads them to the town Enjolras is supposed to live in. Suzanne is clearly curious but when he debates whether he should take her when he goes to see his friend, she advises him to make the first visit alone. So on the morning of a sleepless night, he finds himself standing at the door of a small white house off the main street. His knocking remains unanswered for a few minutes. Then there is the sound of footsteps. The door opens and Grantaire forgets to breathe for a few moments because – there he is.

He is wearing a golden-brown waistcoat which Courfeyrac would have certainly found too simple and his hair has been cut a bit shorter, making it curl more. A few strands are falling over the high forehead. The eyes are exactly as Grantaire remembers them. His own eyes lock on the clear blue gaze and for a moment it is as if not a day has passed since their last encounter. The boy in front of him certainly looks no older than in his memories. In fact, he looks somehow younger. Has he lost weight? It seems so and perhaps it is Grantaire's imagination but he looks paler than usual too. He is smiling though as he steps over the threshold and Grantaire unexpectedly finds himself pulled into a friendly embrace.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras pulls away after a few moments and regards him with his usual calmly inquisitive demeanor, as if it is a casual thing to see a face from an ocean away at your front door. "I have been expecting you. A letter from Combeferre arrived a week ago. Come inside."

Grantaire, quite lost for words at the moment, follows his host into the house and thinks that this is the most welcome he has ever felt in any place.

**End Note:** Well, there's your Enjolras finally entering the scene. Happy now?


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** Here you are. The things I do to please you, people. … not really but hey, I still hope you are pleased. Now if you would be kind enough to give me a piece of your mind…

**12.**

The impression Grantaire gets of the house is that it is full of light. He wonders to what extent this is simply an image constructed by his own mind because the place is associated with Enjolras. But the walls and most of the furniture are white, or at least pale, and the curtains are open, allowing the sun to draw streaks across the wooden floor. One of the windows is open as well, letting in crisp, slightly chilly morning air. The atmosphere is very different from the back room of the Musain which his mind's eye has always placed on the background when he has remembered his idol. And yet, this is somehow fitting. It makes Grantaire think of freedom and purity. Perhaps he is overanalyzing but he doesn't care. He is ecstatic to have new things to connect to Enjolras, fresh images to burn into his mind. His heart is beating with overwhelming excitement. The eyes, the hair, the smile, the embrace – all of these things are nearly enough to make him cry with some unidentifiable emotion. Not exactly joy or exactly pain but just… emotion. It seems to encompass everything. Somewhere in the midst of it, there is both relief and worry. Enjolras is still Enjolras and that fact alone nearly makes everything seem right with the world. But still – the paleness, the thinness… Something is wrong, Grantaire knows it.

He is not sure what he has expected from this meeting but their former leader's apparent joy to see him has come as a welcome surprise. Grantaire has feared not so much an angry outburst at the violation of his privacy – Enjolras is not a man prone to outbursts – but a coldly polite welcome. That would have cut him deeper and possibly left him at a loss for what to do next. That is the reason he has considered bringing Suzanne along – for some extra fire to battle the ice. Thankfully, there is no ice.

But he has also imagined things worse than coldness. In his darkest nightmares, ones that he doesn't even know how his brain has managed to concoct, he has seen Enjolras as a horrible sad shadow of his previous self, without hope or purpose. He is grateful, so grateful that these morbid fantasies are melting away into nothingness in the face of the young man before him whose statuesque figure is arranged in the same confident, open posture as always and whose gaze is as clear and intelligent as ever.

Grantaire takes his seat on one pale armchair, accepts a cup of coffee and lets himself for a moment revel in the absence of ice or darkness around him. There is only the sense of spring in everything.

"You did not have to come," Enjolras says, settling opposite him.

"I needed to see you," Grantaire answers simply.

"It is a long journey from France."

"A little."

There is a quick hint of amusement in Enjolras' eyes.

"I do not quite understand you, Grantaire. All this money and time wasted for the purpose of seeing one man an ocean away."

Grantaire shakes his head quite seriously.

"It is possibly the only time in my life when I have not wasted my resources."

Enjolras looks slightly thoughtful.

"You are still so attached to me. I did not think you would be by this point."

"I tend to stay attached to things long after they do not wish to stay attached to me. I do it with clothes, shoes and people, among other things."

Enjolras raises his eyebrows a notch and his lips stretch into something of a smile, although what emotion it conveys exactly is not clear.

"This is an accusation, is it not?"

Grantaire blinks startled.

"N-no…"

"It is. You think I have abandoned you."

Grantaire lets his eyes drop and is silent for a while.

"You did not even tell me you were leaving."

"I did not tell anyone but Combeferre, and that was because out of my friends Combeferre is the person least prone to rash behavior. I did not keep it a secret and I would have mentioned it had I seen any of you at the time. As it was, I counted on the fact that the news would spread among you. I feared that if I specifically came to announce my departure to each of you personally, or gathered all of you together for that purpose, it would give the matter more gravity than it deserved. My intentions might have been misinterpreted and I may have created undue disturbance with people attempting to stop me. Forgive me if that made you feel neglected. I simply felt at that point that all of you could use a break from me."

Grantaire looks up sharply.

"A break? A break from you? You are not a burden one needs to rest from, Enjolras!"

Enjolras shakes his head with a smile.

"Calm down, my friend. I do not have such a low opinion of myself to consider myself a nuisance, nor have I decided that all of you wished me away. However, I demand a great deal of my friends and, when there is no immediate necessity, I would much rather not upset their lives when they are just trying to rebuild them."

"I have no life to upset," Grantaire mutters.

"Combeferre tells me you are likely finishing your studies this year."

Grantaire shrugs.

"Perhaps."

He almost says that he could care less but it would sound like he is sulking and he does not want to do that in front of Enjolras.

"Why did you leave?" he asks instead. It is, after all, the most burning question.

"There was no need for me in France," Enjolras replies with a slight shrug. "There was not much I could do there."

"What are you occupied with here?"

"Studies."

Grantaire gives him a blank look.

"Studies? You could not have done that at home? What is wrong with French universities?"

Enjolras smiles.

"Not too much, except none of them offer comprehensive courses on the practical side of running a republic."

And Grantaire finally understands.

"You came to see for yourself how it works."

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire laughs. It is perhaps not the most appropriate thing but he cannot stop himself. There is infinite relief in the sound. Of course. _Of course!_ Enjolras still dreams of his republic, everything is at its place and his world feels intact again.

"So you are the scholar of the republic now?" Grantaire asks still with some merriment in his eyes. "I thought that was Combeferre but then he became the republican advisor of the monarchy. I am lost."

"There is a time to fight and there is a time to sit back and observe," Enjolras replies, seemingly not much moved by the sudden laughter except for a slight benign smile. "I have made quite a lot of notes while I have been here. Combeferre will eventually receive them."

"Bring them yourself!" Grantaire cries. "Have you not observed enough? Come home."

Enjolras inclines his head.

"Go back to France? For what purpose?"

Grantaire makes a tiny frustrated noise.

"For the purpose of coming home! What other purpose must there be? For the sake of your friends if not your own. So you can tell Bahorel to stop giving Combeferre a cold shoulder and help Combeferre take care of the people and keep us all together. Only you can do that."

There is a curious expression on Enjolras' face.

"I beg to disagree." He stands up and goes to his writing desk. "A pile of letters arrived for you this past week."

Grantaire can only blink when a stack of sealed envelopes is dumped in front of him. He can see that the top one is indeed addressed to him but it has the address of this house.

"For me? What are letters for me doing here? For that matter, what is anyone doing writing me letters?"

"I would assume they have been sent here because that was the only place people knew you might be. Apparently, Combeferre eventually caved under pressure and was forced to give my address to everyone. There has been a large general increase in the incoming correspondence in this house. They have written to me too. I have to mention that I never intended to keep my whereabouts a secret. I merely thought everyone was busy and if any important information had to be conveyed, it could be conveyed through Combeferre. So his concern about my privacy may have been slightly exaggerated. But then as I understand it, no one had asked for this address before you did so no one has been refused either. I had to assure him in my most recent letter that I am not angry. It bothers me that he seemed to require that. He has never needed such reassurances before."

Grantaire looks guiltily away.

"It's probably our fault. There may have been a time when none of us acted exactly like his friends. He may have been… more afraid to lose you than in a different situation."

Enjolras nods slowly.

"The position he took and the general response it received. I pieced most of the picture together from the little information he let slip in his letters. I admit I did regret being unable to stand by him. He has made a difficult choice."

"Most of us know that now," Grantaire mutters.

"He speaks warmly of you. Especially in his most recent letter. You should read this pile in peace. I suspect you may find them enlightening."

Grantaire nods, still a little awed by the multitude of letters.

"Combeferre also mentioned you may have a companion," Enjolras continues. "A woman. Is she still with you?"

"Oh…" Grantaire has nearly forgotten the quick message he has sent to Combeferre from Le Havre just before boarding the ship. It has been a slightly hopeless request for help but he hasn't even been certain his friend would get it. He obviously has. Hearing Enjolras ask about Suzanne is strange. Les Amis and she seem to be two thinly separated worlds and they have never completely mixed in his mind.

"She is here," he says. "We are staying at a hotel, not too far."

Suddenly he starts wondering what will happen to her if he leaves for France with Enjolras. Despite his plans, the possibility has never seemed entirely real until now. But before he can begin to worry about that, he is quickly distracted. Enjolras has started coughing, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Everything else forgotten, Grantaire fixes his eyes on him. It is not the kind of cough that one uses to clear dust from his throat and he feels as if his heart is shriveling within him. Enjolras meets his gaze calmly, wiping his mouth and hand on a handkerchief he has finally managed to produce from a pocket.

"Ah. You have heard the rumors, I can tell by this look."

"You are ill," Grantaire says weakly.

"I am. It is what Combeferre fears and refuses to acknowledge. Do not look so scared, Grantaire. We all accepted the fact that our days may have been numbered back at the barricades. I may well have not even been sitting here with you now. I admit I may have preferred that death to this prolonged spectacle but on the other hand consumption allows time for more work to be done. I believe I have enough left to finish my notes, which is perhaps the last useful thing I can do for France before someone else takes my place. It is possible that someone slightly different is needed in this climate. So it is quite all right."

Grantaire sits there paralyzed, unable to believe that Enjolras has just calmly, even lightly, pronounced his own death sentence. He can't think of a single reply to that except for a small, scared, longing and desperate 'It's not all right!'. He tries to say that but it remains stuck in his throat as a lump that would not be swallowed.

**End Note:** What the author's note says. This fic is being written at leisure and updated based on interest so if you want to know what happens next, you could let me know. I will be grateful to hear you opinion on Enjolras, what is happening to them, what you would like to happen and all that, even if it will not change the story.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **For those of you who enjoy discussing fan fiction or would like to learn to write more helpful reviews or simply have something to say, you are welcome here:

.net/forum/Les_Miserables_Fanfic_Discussion_Forum/107972/

**13.**

It is impossibly late when Suzanne finally decides to quit waiting and go to bed. She has spent one of the worst days of her life wondering what must have happened to her companion and coming up with explanations ranging from him getting killed on the street to him plain deciding to abandon her – unlikely though that may be with all of his things still in the room. She has mostly tried to reassure herself that after his meeting with his friend, the two have simply spent the day talking and then gone out to get drunk. The idea does not fit with Grantaire's description of Enjolras but then Grantaire's description of Enjolras barely fits with reality. He hasn't left her enough food to last her the whole day. He has promised to be back no later than noon, assuring her that even if he is accepted into Enjolras' home, he is not planning on imposing too much. Thankfully, she has money so she has had to venture downstairs on her own and eat at the hotel's small café. The few English words she has picked up on their way here serve her enough not to order vinegar instead of coffee but she is quickly starting to panic about what she is going to do if he never returns.

The next morning there is still no sign of him. She dresses and sits on the bed, both worried and furious. Either something has happened to him, or he has really just abandoned her. In any case, both explanations lead to the same – she is on her own. When noon passes, she examines her options and reaches the conclusion that there is only one thing to do. She thinks she remembers Enjolras' address. She has seen it a few times, heard Grantaire mutter it once or twice. Anxious for some sort of answer, she eventually gathers her courage and goes out. There is little chance she would be able to navigate the streets of the town alone so she hails a cab and gives the driver the street and number. Once deposited in front of the house, she chases her nerves away with anger. It is a trick that she uses often enough and right now she is finding it very easy to be angry at both men. Even so, her knocking is timid. If she has the wrong house, she has no idea how to explain who she is looking for in English, nor does she have a plan in case she doesn't find him.

She knows it is not the wrong house the moment the door is opened. The young man standing in front of her could not possibly be anyone but Enjolras. He is the perfect embodiment of Grantaire's descriptions and – unbelievably – exactly as beautiful. The hair, the frank blue eyes, the proud but relaxed stance – anyone who has listened to Grantaire enough would recognize him anywhere, even without ever having set eyes on the man. And anyone would be just as surprised at how close to reality the cynic's drunken descriptions have been.

He greets her in English with eyebrows slightly raised and a hint of question in his voice. Strange women must not show up at his doorstep regularly.

"M. Enjolras?" she asks even though she knows the answer.

"Yes," he replies in French this time, faintly surprised but apparently deducing from the 'monsieur' and her accent that she speaks his mother tongue. "Can I help you?"

A little relieved both at having found him and at having someone who understands what she is saying, she pauses for a moment, not sure how to explain.

"I am a friend of M. Grantaire…"

"You are Mlle. Lenglen, then."

She looks at him, surprised.

"He has told you about me?"

That he would know who she is makes her feel both more important and more uncomfortable. She secretly searches his face for traces of disdain, judgment, superiority… He mostly looks impassive.

"I learned about you from another friend of mine, M. Combeferre. As I understand it, Grantaire has engaged him in your case. Are you looking for Grantaire? He has not come by today."

Suzanne frowns and shifts her weight.

"When did he leave yesterday?"

"Around noon. What is the matter?"

"He never came back to the hotel."

"I see…" Enjolras says after a miniature pause and steps aside. "Would you come in?"

She crosses over the threshold reluctantly, feeling almost like she is entering enemy territory. She has cultivated a healthy distaste for this man without having ever seen him. She isn't quite certain where the sentiment stems for but she secretly suspects it's envy. She has never been particularly admired and, while Grantaire's constant babbling about his friends has endeared the rest of them to her, she has found the kind of attention Enjolras has apparently been receiving from all of them unfair and the idea that someone would cross an ocean for him doubly so. His reported disinterest in women she takes almost as a personal insult as she has had very little in her life to recommend her beyond the fact that she is a woman. Now that she has finally met him, she finds it a little harder to dislike him in the same way but his slightly detached politeness intimidates her and immediately puts a wall between them.

From what she knows of him, she has not expected maids or other servants but she is a little surprised that there isn't even a housekeeper. He pours her coffee and sits opposite her, joining the tips of his fingers thoughtfully.

"You have not seen him at all since yesterday morning?"

She shakes her head.

"No. He had promised to be back by noon. Did he not say where he was going after he left you?"

"He said nothing. I am afraid I suspect where he might have gone. I gave him some unpleasant news but I did not expect them to make him forget his responsibility towards you. I rather hope he had become more reliable than I remember him. Or perhaps I underestimated the effect what I told him would have on him. Has he been drinking lately?"

She raises her eyebrows with a small snort.

"Lately?"

He sighs.

"Ah, yes, indeed. It is perpetually hard to change a man's habits, especially when the man does not seem to want to try. We may have luck finding him in one of the local drinking houses. Let us hope that is all there is to it. I will come with you."

They do manage to locate Grantaire merely two streets away and, as Enjolras has predicted, he is drunk. Dead drunk, in fact, as Suzanne has rarely seen him. Enjolras does not seem pleased but neither does he seem very surprised.

"I had hoped he would not do that," he mutters, hoisting the heavier man's arm around his shoulders while she tries to support his other side. "We have better take him back to my house. It is closer and more convenient. You are, of course, welcome to stay as well," he adds, noticing her hesitation. "I had it in my mind to offer my second floor next time I saw him, once he was certain of both your plans. It is unused and it is a waste of your resources to stay at a hotel."

She doesn't reply but just helps him transport the drunk back to the house, recognizing that she has little choice at the moment. Enjolras proves surprisingly strong for his slight build and she herself is not without some strength so between them, they manage to carry their weight the required distance. It is not until they are halfway up the stairs to the second floor of the house that Enjolras stops, leans on the railing and begins coughing, suddenly visibly out of breath. Graintaire, whose whole mass is momentarily left to rest on her shoulder, immediately stiffens and becomes more alert, muttering something unintelligible and getting his feet under him enough to help her drag him the rest of the way without Enjolras' help. As she dumps him on the bed, a stack of papers fall out of his pocket. She bends and picks it up to see that it consists of several letters, tied together with a simple ribbon.

"Do you know where these came from?" she asks the blond who enters the room a few minutes later with a jug of water which he leaves beside the bed.

"They are letters from our friends. They sent them to my address because they expected he would eventually come here."

"You gave them to him yesterday?" She looks through the stack. Bahorel, Joly, Combeferre… All of them have written. "I'm surprised he hasn't read them immediately. He never shuts up about these boys."

Enjolras' expression seems to soften, turning his features from beautiful to extremely attractive but he doesn't comment.

"I suppose you will want to transport your things?" he suggests. "I can accompany you."

"I don't know that we will be moving here, monsieur," she says, a little stiffly, mildly irritated that he seems to have made the decision for her.

He nods in acknowledgement.

"Even so, mademoiselle, I would at least fetch him a change of clothes and, should you decide to spend the night, I am certain there are things that would make you more comfortable."

She is not fond of the idea of sharing Enjolras' home but the simple and practical tones of the offer placate her somewhat and, surprisingly, remind her of Grantaire himself when he is trying to rationalize thing for her. And regarding Grantaire… In the state he is in, she prefers this arrangement to having to handle him on her own, surrounded by people whose language she does not understand. She considers going back to the hotel alone and leaving the drunk in the care of his friend but she is afraid to lose sight of the only two people she can communicate with. With this in mind, she nods and allows Enjolras to escort her to the hotel and back but she only takes a few things.

The second floor of the house contains two bedrooms. Enjolras has made his, somewhat unconventionally, on the first floor, so after assuring her formally that he is at her service, he retreats and leaves her to get settled as she pleases. Suzanne however does not feel comfortable enough to occupy a second room so she remains with Grantaire. The familiar inconvenience of having to sleep next to a drunk is easily outweighed by her reluctance to make herself at home in the house of a man who is a stranger to her in every possible way, including class, mindset, money and behavior.

Grantaire, albeit having fallen asleep immediately and not waking up throughout the night, does not sleep easy, turning and muttering things she cannot quite make out. Consequently, she does not get much sleep herself. She only drifts off around dawn and when she wakes up some time later, he is already awake. Or as awake as a man who has spent two days getting drunk can be. She sits up in the bed and observes him. He is sitting on the other side of the bed, looking at the closed curtains of the window. Feeling some of her anger returning, she gets up, walks over to the window and opens the curtains with an abrupt gesture. The sudden light hurts even her eyes. It must be late morning. Grantaire blinks quickly and puts a hand in front of his face. Suzanne stares him down, arms crossed in front of her chest.

"If you were planning on drowning yourself, you should have told me, I could have helped and it would have been cheaper with water than wine," she says with a moderate quantity of venom in her voice. When he doesn't respond, she continues. "'Come with me', the man says, and 'I need your help' and 'I will help you' and then dumps me in a hotel room in a foreign country with no news for two days after promising to only take a few hours. Why? To get himself so wasted it is a wonder he is alive! And then I have to personally drag your pathetic drunken arse to impose on your highly esteemed ever so important Enjolras. Are you aware that I don't even speak the bloody language? What if I hadn't accidentally learned Enjolras' address by heart? Were you ever planning on coming back?"

"He's dying."

It's barely loud enough to be heard over her angry tirade but when she registers what he has said, she stops abruptly and gives him an incredulous look.

"What?"

"He's sick. He's dying," Grantaire repeats numbly.

Remembering the cough and only now stopping to think what it might mean, Suzanne feels the anger seep out of her and sits on the bed next to him.

"I'm sorry."

He drops his head in his hands with something like a muffled sob. She sighs and pets his shoulder, for the first time feeling truly sorry for him. With all the time and effort dedicated to coming here… And she knows about losing that one important friend. The only difference is, for him it is not his only friend. She remembers the letters and, after sitting there for a while, picks them up from the bedside table.

"Why have you not read them?"

He brushes his eyes, lifts his head enough to look at the still sealed envelopes in her hand and shrugs. She decides to let it go for now and stands up, putting the stack back.

"You should change," she says mildly, still feeling compassionate but not inclined to keep him company in staring at the floor for the rest of the day. "There are clothes for you over there. Water in the basin. I'll see about some coffee…"

His head snaps up.

"Please, I… can't see him right now. Not… like this."

Already at the door, she looks over her shoulder and shakes her head.

"Then don't _be_ like this. You're like my mother. Giving up on life never cured death or grief. And you should have remembered me."

**End Note:** Do I have to remind you? Reviews = faster progress.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: **I suggest playing 'Spot the Plot Point' but you only win the big prize if you can not only spot it but explain how it is a plot point as well.

**14.**

Left alone, Grantaire washes and changes his clothes slowly, almost lethargically, hindered both by his emotional and physical state. His fingers do not quite obey him, the pain in his head is distracting and he pauses more than once on the verge of wondering what the point is. However, when his automatic movements have ceased, he glances at the mirror and discovers that he is looking ridiculously presentable. Perhaps because whatever Enjolras may be in a few months or a year, he is alive now and for him Grantaire wants to try.

A part of him doesn't believe what is happening is real. Enjolras is simply not the type to get an illness like that. He is not some poet who would sit by a window and waste away prettily. At the same time, it is unthinkable to imagine the uglier side of the disease taking hold of a creature such as him. It is wrong. It should have slid away when it touched him, or turned into spring rain, just like everything ugly and dirty has always seemed to be washed and transformed when encountering his spirit…

There is a knock on the door and Grantaire grumbles some sort of invitation, expecting Suzanne with the coffee she has promised. The coffee does enter the room but it is carried by the very object of his thoughts. Enjolras leaves the tray on the bedside table and turns, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Am I intruding?"

"No…" Grantaire manages softly.

"In that case, may I remain and have a word with you?"

"Yes. Of course." He tries to make it not sound so weak and defeated. Enjolras sits on the edge of the bed and looks at him in silence for about half a minute while Grantaire is trying to find any words at all.

"I am not yet dead, Grantaire," he eventually points out with an air of slight irritation. Grantaire feels his eyes starting to sting and quickly looks away. There is a quiet exasperated sigh from Enjolras but when he speaks again his voice is friendly.

"Come, my friend. Sit with me."

Grantaire obeys silently, sitting on the bed and chancing a glance up. Enjolras looks back at him calmly.

"Why did you come all this way? I believe you are searching for something but perhaps searching for it in the wrong place."

Grantaire shakes his head and takes a deep breath. In order to have this conversation with Enjolras, he would have to distance himself from his immediate emotions and that is a challenge. But Enjolras is a rational man and he will only respond to reason.

"For a man who wants to make an impact, you are terribly bad at recognizing the impact you are making," he says finally.

Enjolras frowns a little.

"What do you mean? It is true I could certainly never see why you seemed fond of me almost to the point of… worship." The last word is spoken with obvious distaste.

"It is not as simple as that", Grantaire says, rubbing his temples. He knows the headache won't go away for a few hours more. "We need you."

"You do not need me," Enjolras says with certainty. "Neither you, nor the rest, nor the country. You have your own life. And if you don't, you can build it and I cannot build it for you. As for France and the Amis, it is not the time for a revolution at this particular moment and when the time comes, there will be enough people who can lead it."

Grantaires shakes his head again.

"No… No, Enjolras, no, it's not that. I will try to explain but I was never very good at making sense. You are…" He struggles for a metaphor that Enjolras would not roll his eyes at and suddenly smiles a little. "You are not the king. You are the republic. You are not so much important as the leader but as the connection. You are the spirit of the group as you were the soul of the people at the barricades. You brought us together. It does not matter that Feuilly may have initially joined because of your ideas, Courfeyrac because of his curiosity, Combeferre because of the bond you share and I because you fascinated me. Perhaps we were all there for different reasons but you were the link that connected us and once the link was gone… Well, we failed to stay connected. You always have your eyes on the future – that future which is above and beyond our personal destinies. Why could I never be persuaded to look that far? Perhaps for many reasons, but one of them was because, Enjolras, you dreamed of change and I wanted things to stay the same. I was happy with my friends at the back room of the café, just drinking and laughing and living our lives together. Losing that was as horrible to me as losing your bright future would be to you. I feel like I have lost the one thing that mattered to me and made me so happy. And I feel like I will not be able to find that thing anywhere else. Perhaps it was naivety but I came here hoping that if I could find you and bring you back to us, the circle would be restored. The thought that we may never sit together again and listen to you…"

He stops with tears in his eyes, his throat constricting and choking off the end of that sentence. Enjolras, who has listened with an attentive, slightly thoughtful expression, watches him for a moment. Then he reaches back and takes the still-unopened stack of letters from the bedside table.

"May I?"

Grantaire shrugs and nods, not sure why Enjolras would be interested in his latters but not caring too much. He hasn't felt like he could open them in the last two days. He would have to read all of the enquiries after their friend's health that must be written there and be reminded of the answer every time. Enjolras can read them if he wants to though. Nothing in them could be so private that he would want to hide it from him.

Having received his permission, the blond picks the top letter, opens it and reads aloud.

_Dear R,_

_Fine mess you've gotten yourself into! And to think I never believed you when you said women chased you all the time. Must be through if this one has trotted after you half a world away. Courfeyrac spilled the whole story to me after Combeferre asked him for legal advice. I've been asking around to see if any of my contacts know anything. We may or may not have something useful so it's not worth writing to you about it yet. But now Courfeyrac is playing dumb and pretending he can't remember a simple message so that means I'll have to go and talk to Monsieur Governmnet Position personally. Really, Grantaire, you and that skirt of yours owe me a week's worth of drinks. Give my regards to Enjolras and hurry up and drag yourselves back here. I might need Enjolras to tutor me for my bar exam on account of Pontmercy being too damn annoying sometimes._

_Bahorel_

Grantaire can't help a smile and Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

"It would seem, Grantaire, that you have accidentally caused the reassembly of the Amis around a cause that has nothing to do with me. Perhaps the link between you is not as weakened as you fear."

Grantaire blinks.

"It is not a reassembly. And it is not the Amis, only three of them. And it is not a cause, it is…" he waves a hand vaguely. Enjolras is looking at him with an amused glint in his eyes.

"Do you think I just started reading your personal letters out of curiosity?"

"It did not occur to me to wonder…" But truly, the idea of Enjolras displaying this type of gossipy curiosity is preposterous. "Then why?"

The blond head tilts gently to the side.

"I have an idea what they are likely to contain and I want you to hear it. The same people have written to me as well – perhaps not with the same words but I imagine I have managed to infer enough about their general sentiments and the more important goings-on. The fact of the matter, Grantaire, is… You have brought them together. Maybe not with a direct action but by reaching out to them for help and by coming here to find me, you have given them a cause. It is a very different cause, I admit, and one that I had not really thought about, but you seem to believe in it. That we should stay together, hold on to our connection? It is a belief. I'd like to think you did not just come here because of some obsession with me."

"I… No, I suppose not but… Is this why you are reading this to me? To convince me we should go on without you? Because a few of us happened to come together on this occasion simply by chance?"

"By chance?" Enjolras looks at him a little sternly. "Did you send an appeal for help to an unnamed person with an unknown address? You asked Combeferre because he is your friend and a man you can depend on. The rest joined without you even asking because they cannot stand injustice, or leaving a friend in need of assistance. And you did not even ask assistance for yourself. You have a heart, Grantaire, and a man with a heart cannot be without ideals, whatever I may have said to you when you have angered me in the past. It is not me that connects you. It is your hearts. Good, strong hearts that will always find each other when they need to or when someone needs them to. Shall we see what the others have written?"

As the letters are opened one after the other, Grantaire's head almost starts spinning and he can practically hear the voices of his friends, each distinctly different and bringing a different emotion, a kaleidoscope. Jehan, as always, empathizes with the fate of the women of the streets and has offered his help. In fact, Enjolras is right – all of them have made themselves available to carry out some task should the need arise. And all of them want to know how he is doing on his mission. Apart from that, Feuilly congratulates him on making Bahorel swallow his indignation and talk to Combeferre. Marius complains about Bahorel's impatience regarding his exam and assures him that he will assist Combeferre on legal matters if a certified lawyer is needed since Courfeyrac and Bossuet have not yet received their certificates. Courfeyrac asks after Enjolras, teases him about Suzanne and, somewhat more surprisingly, informs him briefly on his son's new habits. Victor, it would appear, can wave a rattle as a formidable weapon. Joly's current obsession seems to be garlic and in his letter he beseeches Grantaire to somehow make Enjolras eat it in large quantities for his health. At this Enjolras laughs so sincerely that even Grantaire manages to offer a chuckle, albeit a little pained. If only garlic was the answer. Bossuet swears he feels like Joly is preparing to fight off vampires and laughingly shares that Musichetta has threatened to leave her betrothed and move in with him if some of the spice in question does not leave the house.

At the last letter Grantaire finds it hard to keep it together and his eyes start watering again. This one is from Combeferre.

_Dear Grantaire,_

_I hope dearly that this letter reaches you, and that it reaches you in good health. If it does, then you probably know that I wrote to tell Enjolras about your arrival. I could not keep it secret from him and then I could not keep his address secret from the rest of us who wanted to know on what basis I had only given it to you. I seemed to manage better a few years ago when I was trying to avoid revealing any information about our society. But then again, keeping secrets from friends is much harder and I hope I am forgiven by both of you. I also hope that you are together; that you have found him, not only this letter; that the two of you have not found some reason to part. If you are together, you must have found out by now why I worry about him so much and why I hope you can bring him back with you. I would like nothing more than to be wrong in my fears, even though he himself and his American doctors seem certain in his condition. There is not much I can do over a letter so I hope I will have the chance to see you both personally, as soon as the distance and your means permit. Everyone has dropped some money with me to pay for your return since much of what you had must have gone to help your friend. I have not dared send it because I do not even know if it will reach you, but if you can just write to us to confirm where you are, it will be on its way as soon as possible. I will try to make sure it travels safe. We hope you will be all right until then._

_I have used the phrase 'I hope' five times already but I do hope for a lot of things. It pains me that in my current position I can do nothing for either of you but hope. But until I can do more, I shall rest my faith on you, my friend._

_Meanwhile, I will try to be of some use to Mlle Lenglen. Courfeyrac and I have been looking into her case. It isn't very easy with so little information but, to my surprise, Bahorel came to talk to me about it and it is possible he may have found us some leads. I must thank you – it was the first conversation I have had with him in a despicably long time and I'd like to think it did not end on a hostile note. We will continue to do our best and write to you if we have news. My hope is that when my next letter reaches you, you will be on your way back. Hopefully not alone._

_Give my love to Enjolras, even though I have already sent it to him on paper, and remember that you have our support. _

_Yours,_

_J.M. Combeferre_

When Enjolras finishes reading, there is silence for a while. Grantaire swallows a few times, gulping down tears. What he has heard has touched him in many ways, making his heart both lighter and heavier at the same time. The silence is eventually broken by Enjolras.

"I'll come back with you." He pauses. "Even if it means being fed nothing but garlic when we reach Paris."

And Grantaire has to laugh with him.

**End Note: **So did you spot anything? No worries if you have no idea what I'm talking about, there's probably one in a million chance you will figure out what it is with so little information. Perhaps if you're good I may give you an additional hint next chapter. But do review, please. For the boys' sake.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **Not much to say, back to France in the next one and we will meet some Amis. Thank you all for your comments and support! I would love to hear your thoughts on Enjolras as I already know what most of you think about Grantaire's character in this.

**15.**

"We won't leave before we find you a place. Enjolras knows some French families here who may need a maid or who might know someone else who needs one…"

Suzanne is listening and nodding, trying not to look unhappy at the prospect. It is more than she has any right to expect but she is tired of feeling obliged to people and even more tired of not letting herself want things. And what she wants – what she really wants – is not to be left on her own.

Grantaire is anxious to go back, that much is obvious. She wonders if it is only his word that compels him to stay long enough to help her settle. Then again, this is uncharitable. He has helped before without being bound by promises…

She realizes he has stopped talking and lifts her eyes from her coffee to look at him.

"I would have rather you came back with us, if it wasn't dangerous," he says. "I would pay for it gladly."

"How?" she asks. She is divided between feeling embarrassed and feeling comforted by the thought.

He flushes and mutters something about Enjolras and a loan. To her own surprise, that seems to tip the scales more towards her feeling comforted. Asking Enjolras for a favor is not something Grantaire would do lightly, especially since Enjolras has already insisted on paying his ticket.

"I'd be asking on my own behalf," he adds quickly and she laughs.

"You've learned to beware of my notorious pride."

"It matches my notorious lack of it. I will miss you."

She opens her mouth, ready to say that if he was really going to miss her this much, he would stay. But it doesn't suit her, this little-girl pouting. And if she is honest with herself, she understands why he could not. It is unfair to ask him to choose. He has treated her like a friend and she appreciates it but the time he has left to get his old circle reassembled is limited. With Enjolras ill, there is no telling how long they have left to be all together again. She has learned to respect his affection for his friends and, indeed, she counts it among his best qualities. She is even beginning to understand his admiration for Enjolras.

"I feel flattered that you think you will feel my absence at all," she says finally.

"I love them very dearly. It often seems like I cannot function without them. But I have grown closer to you than I have to them. We are more equal, you and I."

She lifts an eyebrow.

"I see. And they are above us both. You completely failed at making that sound like a compliment, Grantaire."

"Not exactly what I meant… It is simply that they have never needed me. They tolerate me and they are perhaps attached to me but there is a line that I have never known how to cross. I am… yes, a friend to them, but nobody's closest friend."

"And you are mine for lack of any other," she says with a twist of her lips.

He smiles wryly.

"Ah, go on and mock me then but that is the best I can do. When someone else does appear, they will effortlessly knock me off that pedestal."

She doesn't want to tease him more and embraces him instead.

"I will miss you too."

"It seems I am destined to miss people. Perhaps if Combeferre's investigation is successful… If there is an opportunity for you to come back, I will send for you."

She smiles even though she thinks it unlikely.

"Perhaps."

Enjolras finds her the next morning on a bench in the small garden. They nod a greeting to each other and he joins her, putting a stack of papers on his knees and beginning to read through them in some concentration. She observes him quietly. Apart from the slight pallor of his skin which only looks so unnatural in the spring sun, he does not look like a sick man. Perhaps what prevents the notion is his busy attitude. It strikes her that perhaps within the time constraints of the disease he still has more life left ahead of him than many who are destined to live to an old age. Whatever may happen, until he draws his last breath, this man will be truly alive. His energy is infectious. She feels sometimes like time passes in a different way for him. Every time she turns her back, he has lived a week, done a week's worth of work, constructed new plans and ideas. He seems set in his ways, yet the closer she comes to him, the more easily she can sense the excitement of an expanding mind. Even far from his roots, he lives and breathes with his motherland and with the knowledge that she will remain when he is gone. He thinks of her future as if it were his own. He is not interested in too many things but the interests he does have, he pursues with a real passion.

It has been two weeks since they have been staying at his house and her initial misgivings have mostly given way to slightly bemused sympathy. At first, she has found it hard to like him despite his obvious good intentions in everything. He is selfless and certainly considerate, yet at first sight it has been difficult to see much emotion in that consideration. It has been just as difficult to notice any fault or weakness in him and that has made him seem unapproachable. But after the first impression, her view has been slowly but surely shifted, degree by degree. It has struck her as curious that, for all the obvious differences between them, the qualities she likes in him overlap almost completely with the ones she likes in Grantaire. When she has shared that opinion with Grantaire, he has looked at her as if she were mad. She chuckles quietly to herself.

"You do him some good."

Enjolras has spoken without looking up from his papers and it takes her a second to realize he is addressing her.

"How did you reach that conclusion? Has he been showing signs of a feminine touch by chance?" she asks jokingly. "Because if he has, I doubt I am to blame."

"I don't think it has anything to do with your sex," Enjolras answers seriously. "It is good for him to have a regular companion whose presence he can count on. He feels comfortable with you. I would like you to come with us to France, unless you have made up your mind to stay here."

She gives him an odd look.

"But I cannot go back, I'll be arrested!"

"Most probably not. I received a letter this morning and one has arrived for Grantaire as well which I suspect contains similar information. Forgive me for not mentioning it immediately but I was debating if I should wait for him to come back. He has gone to fetch some things for me."

She straightens up, all attention, as he continues.

"They have detained the man who attacked you."

She starts.

"He is certainly alive then?"

He nods.

"And he did report you to the police as an attempted murderess a few months ago. A while later two of our friends interrupted him in an alley with another girl. He was holding a knife."

"How did they happen upon him? The place he took me to was away from busy roads."

"They had been watching him for a while. With their testimony and the girl's, this is likely to solve your case too if he is convicted. And you will be useful as a witness if the trial is not done by the time we get back. They may admonish you for running but I doubt there will be worse consequences than that if all remains as it seems."

She looks at him wide-eyed. This news is completely unexpected to her and she finds it inconceivable that a group of young men with other things to do have devoted their time to identifying and monitoring her attacker.

"If all remains as it seems?" she asks cautiously.

Enjolras nods.

"There is a risk. I will not hide it. Communication is difficult at such a distance. It is possible that there is some mistake or something important may happen before we get there and we will not know about it on time. The man may escape, it happens. Or he may seek some form of revenge on you. It is unlikely under the circumstances but not impossible that you may still have to stand trial and prove your innocence."

She nods slowly, taking this in.

"So I may still go to prison."

"Highly unlikely. We would not allow it when we know it to be unjust and you will have more lawyers than you probably want. Still, the choice is yours."

"I still don't have the money to go back."

"I will be more than happy to cover the costs. Before you object, I do not consider it a favour. I consider it my duty to help a fellow human being who has been wronged when it is easily within my capabilities."

She pauses for a long time.

"It will be difficult to pay you back but I will, eventually," she says finally.

"You may do that if you wish. It is of no consequence to me. In fact, I would rather you didn't. I simply mean to help and, perhaps, to do Grantaire a service as well. Not to burden you with a debt."

"I will pay you back."

Enjolras shrugs and smiles a little.

"I admit I expected even more of an argument from you. I had nearly prepared for a debate."

"My pride… is not worth declining what you offer. If I must, I will bow my head and accept charity if it means I don't have to stay here."

"The desire to right a wrong is not charity, mademoiselle. Charity and pity can only truly be given to someone whose fate is, at least to some degree, deserved, or who will not do anything to change it. I do not think you are to blame for your predicament, nor do I think you would leave your life in other people's hands if you had the choice."

She shakes her head and laughs.

"You are unnaturally persuasive."

"If I am, it is only because I firmly believe what I say."

"I should very much like to believe what you say as well."

"That, mademoiselle, is entirely up to you."

"Ah, well, at least _something_ is," she mutters.

She cannot deny though that she feels nearly at ease and nearly happy.

**End Note: **My dears, if you can find it into your hearts to be so kind and push the little button below… You know, without reviews I have no motivation to update. Which reminds me: READ ABELARDA'S STUFF as well as SYTHAR'S NEW FIC and PLEASE LET'S BAND TOGETHER AND MAKE COLONEL DESPARD UPDATE THE SLEEP OF REASON because the fandom needs more fairies, vampires and supernatural Thank you!


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: **Thank you for your reviews, I find them very encouraging and, subsequently, inspiring. As a result, you can't complain of the length of this chapter. I encourage you all to visit the discussion forum advertised a few chapters back if you feel like sharing an opinion on anything LM fic related.

**16.**

Throughout their journey back, Grantaire often finds himself overwhelmed with emotions that keep him awake into the night. Suzanne cannot sleep either and they end up talking. They are sharing quarters again, aware that someone else is paying and unwilling to spend more than necessary. Enjolras has shrugged at this decision although he has made it clear he would not have minded the extra cost. But they are used to each other and the availability of someone to talk to in close proximity is, in this case, welcomed. Suzanne is anxious, afraid of what may await her. Grantaire's promises to help reassure her somewhat but not completely. He himself does not quite know how he feels. Every day he comes closer to completing his self-appointed task and he is still finding it difficult to believe he has come this far. But the victory is bittersweet, tinged with constant worry and haunted by the ticking of an eternal clock. His heart stops every time he hears his friend catch his breath and he waits for the inevitable signs that the disease is worsening.

For all of that, Enjolras seems to be faring the best of the three. As they near France, he appears to be content, almost cheerful. He coughs, he is ill, but he is not visibly getting worse. The return to his country evidently excites him. This serves to pacify Grantaire's troubled soul to an extent. He has somehow managed to please their general for once. Enjolras regards him still with exasperation and occasional irritation but with unmistakable friendliness and perhaps even a touch more patience than before. There is no revolution to plan now, fewer matters of immediate urgency, and his sharpness has mellowed slightly. He is more often amused than angered and there seems to be a tiny but nearly perpetual smile hiding in the corners of his mouth that can only be seen from certain angles. Grantaire cannot quite account for it, given the circumstances, but it has a relaxing effect on him and he is grateful. Seeing a friend suffer, seeing his idol crumble would have sunk a knife into his heart and Enjolras seems to be sparing him for now.

They tend to gather together in the evenings, if not during the day, and Grantaire, who has never observed his friend in the company of women for more than five minutes, finds himself a little curious. Most of the time there is not much to be said about the exchanges between Enjolras and Suzanne. He is simply polite and certainly not as cold as Grantaire has seen him when rebuking girlish advances on his person – but, of course, Suzanne isn't making any. Grantaire has expected her to fall deeper under the young man's charm once she has met him – they are, after all, close in age, even if she seems to carry herself if she were older. He has almost dreaded some sort of infatuation which would have been unpleasant for all three. Enjolras would have found it unwelcome, Suzanne would have been hurt and embarrassed and Grantaire… He would have felt honestly felt a little bereft to be displaced in her daily schedule by such a thing. But, while her feelings for Enjolras have changed from distrust to sympathy, her appreciation appears decidedly not romantic and it is expressed sparingly. This seems to earn Enjolras' approval and Grantaire, on his part, admits to himself that he is relieved. It has never even occurred to him that anyone would prefer his company to the much brighter presence of his friend but while Suzanne is certainly not singing his praises, she does seem to favour him. Perhaps only because she knows him better or perhaps she is simply smart enough to realize Enjolras would ignore her if she demanded too much attention.

Most evenings find Grantaire and Suzanne engaged in a peculiar brand of entertainment which involves Grantaire ranting as usual while she tries to derail him with increasingly inventive quips and occasional arguments. Enjolras listens with half an ear and busies himself with his notes or a book in the corner. It is not quite the Musain but Grantaire welcomes anything that comes close.

One of these evenings brings an interesting conversation. Grantaire and Suzanne are in the middle of some very convoluted argument which has started with some remark by Grantaire on the Romans, then crossed over to Egypt, and is now revolving around the comparison between Roman and Egyptian gods. Suzanne makes an observation which renders Grantaire thoughtful for a few moments.

"Well done," comes from the corner in the momentary silence and both turn to look at Enjolras. He seems as intent on his papers as ever but he glances up at them when he senses their eyes on him and smiles slightly. "Your knowledge is understandably lacking, mademoiselle, and your arguments are often all over the place but, when arguing with Grantaire, that is more an asset than a problem. On the whole, your thoughts seem to be original and your rhetoric can be rather sound at times. You make a passionate opponent and you have made him pause, which is to be admired. So well done."

"You are saying I am specifically suited to arguing with this one here?" Suzanne asks, tapping a chuckling Grantaire on the shoulder.

Enjolras smiles.

"He has knowledge enough for both of you and you provide the only sense of direction in the discussion so perhaps, yes. If we had you at the back room of the Musain to keep him occupied, fewer conversations would get completely derailed."

She lifts an eyebrow in mild amusement.

"Pity then that I am a woman and not allowed to enter you manly abode. You shall therefore be destined to chaos."

Enjolras looks startled.

"Well, I don't suppose I will heed your gender at all if you are there to discuss classicism with Grantaire. As long as you do not insist on sitting on anyone's lap and trying to occupy the attention of the whole room with your person, I shall not mind."

She chuckles.

"No, I agree with you. I have noticed too that it seems sadly impossible for a man to retain his intellectual faculties when a woman is sitting on his lap, even if it doesn't have quite the same effect on the woman."

Enjolras shrugs.

"I imagine it is simply uncomfortable."

Grantaire snorts and hides behind his glass. Suzanne smirks and sits daintily on his knee.

"Do you suppose I can make him more distracted than he already is?"

"I could not predict," Enjolras says, looking unconcerned. "Perhaps in his case he will be distracted from his distraction, which will be curious to observe. Although I must admit I have yet to witness a woman causing a man to be more focused rather than the opposite."

"That is a bit uncharitable of you but I was told you are not fond of women," Suzanne remarks.

Enjolras tilts his head.

"That is perhaps slightly incorrectly phrased. I simply do not seem to be very partial to the pursuit of women as a favourite pastime. I am also not overly fond of the general way women behave. I realize their importance and I do respect them. I do not claim to know if their behavior is a direct result of their gender or other reasons, however valid. I simply do not particularly care for the end result. I do not condemn it. My lack of enthusiasm is not meant to be an insult. I am certain there are types of people you respect but do not find intriguing. Women do not share my interests so I usually have little to speak with them of. If a woman should come to me and speak to me in the same way my friends do, I shall accept her readily."

"You are quite harsh. Society dictates to women what to be."

"Society dictates that the working class should be uneducated but I have Feuilly among my closest friends." He surveys her thoughtfully. "You do seem to possess his desire to learn. You try to understand what Grantaire is saying and be better prepared for the next argument, rather than dismissing the topic because you are not proficient in it. This speaks of an active mind and an active mind is equally beneficial to both a man and a woman."

She slips into a chair with a sigh. "Maybe in your world. Where we live it is barely beneficial to anyone." She absently takes the bottle from Grantaire's hands to fill her own glass and one for Enjolras. Grantaire suspects there is a plot here to make him drink less by distributing the wine among the three of them. Suzanne toasts them. "To M. Enjolras' republic of freedom and equality – may we not live to see it for that may spoil its splendor."

Grantaire laughs and drinks.

"My word, Susu, you are too much like me for your own good sometimes."

"Everything I am is too much for my own good, I fear," she notes with a crooked smile.

Enjolras takes an absent sip from his glass, his attention back to his papers. He makes a single, seemingly unrelated comment some ten minutes later.

"Perhaps our targets and approaches were somewhat limited."

As he seems to be talking more to himself than to them, Suzanne and Grantaire leave that without an answer.

When they are finally on their way from Le Havre to Paris, Grantaire remembers the last time he has been in this diligence. There is a much different atmosphere now. There is still tension as all three of them are expecting difficult encounters in the future but with Enjolras there, there is a sense of security. Wherever the path may lead, it will not be the wrong path, not with his approval. Grantaire has somehow always felt that, out of all the people he knows, Enjolras would be the one to stop him sinking too far or losing his way completely. The others may sympathize with him but he is not so sure they would know how to help him fight his own nature, or that they would even find the time and energy to try. Enjolras would know how to direct him. If he can't make him soar, he would at least keep his head above the water. He is not sure why – maybe simply because it's Enjolras and he would not allow the world to go too wrong.

For how long though?

As horrible at it is, as little as he wants to think of it, the day would come when Enjolras would no longer be there and Grantaire knows there would be two possibilities from then on. He would either have to let himself disappear, shrivel away and die like an unnecessary appendage that cannot exist on its own, or he would have to learn to replicate that voice – that force for action and progress that he doesn't naturally possess – and try once more to _be_ something. Normally, the second would not even occur to him but things have gotten more complicated. There is a third option which he dreads the most – the possibility of dragging someone down with him and becoming responsible for someone else's unhappiness.

He has formed a particular type of intimate friendship with Suzanne, the likes of which he has never quite experienced before. Their lives have become entwined, one inevitably connected to the other. He almost doesn't dare believe it but he has unwittingly allowed himself to matter. He has been telling himself all the while with the voice of the cynic that it would never go too far anyway. That he simply isn't appealing enough for anyone to be permanently attached to him. He longs to be admired and needed but he cannot quite convince himself that he is not imagining the level of attachment the two of them have reached. He still remembers her resentment and contempt from their encounters before they have embarked on this journey. He remembers her anger at needing his help, her obvious desire to get away from him. He has been uncertain since then, both wanting to push the boundaries of what she would forgive him and at the same time fearing the outcome. But beyond the bitterness and cynicism, the soul and reason of a young man not yet entirely drowned in self-doubt are telling him that he has created a bond and he is now responsible for it. He could not possibly compare himself to Enjolras in his wildest dreams but he remembers the feeling of being abandoned, the sharp pain of the broken link as Enjolras has left France. If his absence or degradation would cause one tenth of that to another… He has a half-baked idea to try one more time. He doesn't dare voice it or even acknowledge it as a firm decision, aware that his previous moments of inspiration have been short-lived and led to nothing but embarrassment. But tentatively, secretly, a part of him whispers that he is not ready to give up.

"You are certain you will not be troubled in the way of money?"

The question pulls him out of his thoughts. He nods to Enjolras.

"I still have my allowance – it has been piling up the last few months. It will be enough to rent a new apartment and cover our costs. Of course, truthfully, I owe that to y-"

"Grantaire."

He subsides and Enjolras continues.

"Truthfully, you owe me nothing. Your journey was for my benefit, as much as yours. I consider _neither_ of you in debt." It is said with finality and slight impatience so Grantaire does not argue. Suzanne stays silent as well even though he knows she will like nothing better but to return the money if she ever gets a chance. It is however a very large sum and any such promises in the near future will not have much to back them up.

"You will come with me to visit Combeferre tomorrow?" Enjolras asks him, changing the subject.

"I don't know…"

He feels he should give them their time alone for that first meeting and, in addition, he does not want to see Combeferre's concerned looks or be there to hear the questions. Enjolras seems to understand.

"At least join us later."

Grantaire nods.

"Perhaps I will go to see Courfeyrac first about my things and my allowance. It has been received at his address. Then I will attempt to find suitable lodgings."

They are to spend the night at a hotel. They have spent two days in Le Havre to rest from the journey and Enjolras has written to Combeferre to alert him of their arrival and ask of him to keep an eye out for suitable rooms for them but it is unlikely that he has found something this quick.

However, when they arrive in Paris late that evening, as they step out of the diligence, they are engulfed in a small crowd of Amis and a cacophony of shouts and cheers.

"We have found you apartments!" Bahorel booms when the incoherency of the first few minutes has somewhat given way to more intelligent chatter. "Not too far from the old places where you lived."

"Feuilly and he managed the feat spectacularly in only two days," Jehan says, beaming. "We do hope you'll be comfortable but if they don't suit, I am confident we can help look for new places."

"They will do for a start," Combeferre says. "As soon as you are rested, we can see about getting you settled but there is no hurry. Until then…"

"Until then," Jolly interrupts him, "Combeferre and Courfeyrac nearly dueled over which of them to house you."

"We were very sorry they _didn't _duel," Bahorel laments. "It would have been a sight."

"A more elegant sight than you when you fight, _mon ami_, thank you," Courfeyrac retorts, laughing. Combeferre looks rather amused as well.

"Poor Marius here offered his services too," Bossuet says with a twinkle.

"I did," Marius agrees, "as we have more than enough space, even with the little one there and Cosette's father living with us."

"But these two were too intimidating so he stepped down," Bossuet concluded.

"They appealed to me for rational judgment," Feuilly informs Grantaire and Enjolras, leading the whole group down the street where two carriages are waiting. One, as it transpires, belongs to Combeferre and the other is hired by Courfeyrac.

"I should hope so," Enjolras says with an air of perfect seriousness. "Combeferre is notoriously irrational."

This elicits merry chuckles form all of the boys and an affectionate smile from Combeferre.

"Well, he handled it like a true king Solomon," Combeferre says, patting Feuilly on the shoulder. "He ruled that Enjolras should stay with me and Courfeyrac will have Grantaire and mademoiselle Lenglen, if they would prefer to stay together. Otherwise, you could be Marius' guest, mademoiselle, I am told his wife will appreciate some female company."

Grantaire notices that Suzanne has taken his arm and is looking a touch lost under this sudden bombardment, even though she has put a practiced smile on. He himself has not expected quite this kind of welcome but his heart is swelling with joy and relishing in the noise and near-chaos around them.

"I believe I could put up with Grantaire a little longer but thank you – if he misbehaves, I will be sure to accept the offer," Suzanne says and Grantaire allows himself to feel a little delighted at this demonstration of preference in front of his friends, even if it is simply the result of her not knowing any of these people and finding security in his presence. He nods when she glances at him for confirmation.

"I am tempted to make a remark about the dangers of allowing Courfeyrac to house a lady under his roof," Joly says, "but I am not allowed to, now that he is being a model husband and father. His Jacqueline will have him for dinner if he is too friendly with another woman."

"You hold your tongue, Jolllly," Courfeyrac admonishes him. "It does not do for one dog on a leash to make fun of another. And my Jacqueline will do nothing of the sort. She is perfectly liberal. If I flirt with mademoiselle Lenglen, she will not stop me – she will merely begin flirting with Grantaire."

"And you, my friend, will turn quite a peculiar shade of green," Bossuet says blithely.

"I rather hope both of you will let the poor people rest before subjecting them to anything of the sort," Feuilly says, turning for a moment away from Enjolras whom he has been asking questions about America.

"My hope as well," Combeferre agrees, stopping as they have reached the carriages. "We part here." He embraces Grantaire. "I hope to see you tomorrow. There is a lot to discuss."

As he is about to get into the carriage, Grantaire catches one last glimpse of Enjolras who has paused outside before joining Combeferre. He is standing under the moonlight, shoulders straight, chin lifted and fair hair stirring lightly in the gentle wind. He spins slowly on the spot, surveying the city around him, and Grantaire smiles.

"He's home."

**End Note:** Comments are lovely things. They are quick to transform into inspiration. There is still some way to go before the end of this so your help is welcome, especially if you are fond of quick updates.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **Do forgive me the absence, dear readers. I am a proud graduate this June and there has been a bit of a struggle to get the diploma I need in order to go for a PhD so my mind was a little preoccupied for a while. However, with a completely free and hopefully happy and fun summer ahead of me, I am planning on doing a lot of writing. That may not always go as quickly as I want it to but what you need to know is that I'm working on it. The other reason for the hiatus was that the first stage of the story is complete and the second one needed a little more planning.

We are now going to switch the point of view. You have been seeing things through Grantaire and Suzanne's eyes until now but from this chapter on the rest of the boys will be more present. Please enjoy and kindly comment in order to prevent writer's block and another long wait. To my more faithful readers and reviewers, a great thank you!

**17.**

Joly drums his fingers nervously on the surface of his desk and listens to the clock as it slices the seconds away. He shifts, crosses his legs, then uncrosses them again. Finally, after fiddling for some time with a pen, he resorts to breathing to calm his nerves. He straightens up in his chair, assuming a more 'correct' position, and starts counting to four every time he breathes in and exhales. The tension in is stomach recedes a little. He feels rather silly for being tense in the first place. Enjolras would certainly not approve. He would hate to know he has instilled any such feelings of apprehension in a close friend. But it isn't the man himself that makes Joly nervous – it is the responsibility. Enjolras is due for an examination in a few minutes. Joly has gently insisted on it himself.

Examining Enjolras alone is something of a novelty. There have been a few cuts and bruises to tend to in the past but everyone has always naturally assumed that Enjolras is primarily Combeferre's to take care of. Joly has hesitated before requesting to be more involved but three days ago he has worked up the courage. Combeferre is as skilled a physician as ever but he is also busier now than ever, wrapped up in politics and fighting to salvage republican ideas if the republic itself could not be salvaged. Joly is now the man with the practice, the man with the clinic and the man with the stethoscope and he really only wishes to help, to lighten some of his friend's burden.

Even so, asking to take over some of the responsibility for Enjolras' health has felt like a tricky thing – not because Combeferre would begrudge him access to their friend but because of his own insecurities. He has felt still too young, somehow small. Once he has asked, Enjolras and Combeferre have not put up much resistance. He tries not to think that they have only agreed in order not to offend him. Courfeyrac and Bahorel have teased him, pointing out that Enjolras is not a woman with fragile nerves like most of his patients. It is true that his clinic attracts mostly female customers and not many of them actually very sick. A number of them are Musichetta's friends. His talk of bad miasmas in the air and magnetism appeals more to them than to the men who are quick to declare all of it nonsense. It is not in Joly's character to be easily offended so he takes the jokes but they do not discourage him from attempting even the silliest-sounding cures, provided that they are not likely to be harmful to a patient. Combeferre laughs at some of his ideas but not at the principle. He condones curiosity and experimentation and has even helped on occasion. Still he is weary of putting things to practice which do not seem to have solid logic or years of medical tradition behind them. Joly knows that, especially when it comes to Enjolras, anything he does will need to have Combeferre's approval. But he feels that he needs to be involved. If he can do anything at all, even if it is through pure luck or chance or fate, to keep their dear friend with them longer, he wants to be there to do it.

Unsurprisingly, his patient arrives on time and in fairly good spirits. Enjolras' health is a solemn matter to everyone but the man himself. He has never been as exuberant as Courfeyrac or even Joly himself but his face is smooth and almost bright, his forehead unwrinkled by worry. He seems, at least outwardly, no more depressed about this hanging death sentence than he has ever been about the possibility of being killed at the barricades. Joly is not sure he believes all of this nonchalance but he accepts it as yet another display of his friend's strength of mind.

"How have you been feeling?" he begins with the most generic, yet necessary question.

"Fairly well, considering," Enjolras answers. "I have occasional spells but they have not yet become incapacitating. Perhaps… I think, fewer since I left America. I feel better here."

"Bahorel keeps saying America has been killing you. Jehan made some odd comment about you being a vampire who needs the earth of his homeland to thrive but I think he primarily meant to tease me about the garlic."

An amused smile flickers on Enjolras' lips but he says nothing.

_How often do you cough? Is there much blood? Shortness of breath? Chills? Fever?_ In between the questions, Joly assembles his stethoscope and asks Enjolras to remove his vest and shirt. He finds that slipping on his professional manner like protective clothing and going through the routine of the examination helps calm his nerves. Pressing the instrument to the patient's back, the commands to breathe and cough – it's a comfortingly repetitive ritual. There is nothing much surprising about the examination itself but seeing signs of the disease in his friend is strange and disturbing and Joly knows he'll be hearing the sound of his breathing when he goes to bed tonight.

"Well," Joly says finally, putting away the stethoscope. "It is not quite as bad as it might have been. You may dress." He sits behind his desk and makes a few notes, then taps his lips with the pen thoughtfully. "I find it peculiar…" he begins after a few moments, "Combeferre tells me he could not determine how you contracted the disease. You told him you could not remember being in contact with anyone who was sick."

"Not with consumption, no. I visited hospital wards twice, the first for patients with cholera and the second for ones with yellow fever."

"No one who was coughing at all?"

"No. I do not remember any coughing, especially not anything sounding like phthisis. Of course, I may have easily been in contact with a sick person without knowing."

"Evidently you were… But see, the thing is... I believe it is the coughing which makes the air bad. There are people who have remained healthy even though someone they lived with had the disease but I cannot recall any cases in which the disease was hidden but affected a person who came in contact with the ill. It would have been much more likely for you to notice the person who has affected you for the fact that they would have been coughing and even then... How… How close were the closes contacts you had in America? Forgive the personal nature of this question but you did not have any romantic relationships?"

The question seems ridiculous but Joly convinces himself it is necessary to ask. Enjolras is, after all, a human being. It is not completely inconceivable that he would have had…

"No," his patient answers with certainty.

"Any other acquaintances that you may have spent time being physically close to in any way? Did you live with anyone else?"

"I lived on my own the whole time. My contacts did not go beyond a handshake."

"So you have no explanation for how you got sick."

A headshake and a faint smile. "Do you not think I would have told Combeferre if I did?"

Joly frowns. "forgive me but I feel I should do this for the sake of thoroughness. Can you remember what you were doing around the time the symptoms appeared?"

"I am not sure. I travelled quite a bit across the country. I was trying to gain knowledge of how different aspects of it worked. Some things are fascinating, others outrageous. I had a conversation with Feuilly yesterday about slavery. But I digress. When I noticed the first symptoms… I believe I was focusing on agriculture at the time. I visited some farms in Mississippi."

"Did they have any sick people in them?"

"No, I'm afraid, only a lot of chickens."

"Well, I've never heard of consumption being caught from chickens."

"Neither have I. Why is it so important how I acquired it?" Enjolras asks with a slight tilt of his head.

Joly sighs. "If I can determine exactly when it happened and what you have been doing since, it may be easier to… make predictions about…"

"How much time I have left."

Joly looks up at him. "Yes."

"I am sorry this is difficult on you."

The young doctor gives his friend a searching look.

"Is it not difficult on you?"

"It is. But I believe I dwell on it less than the rest of you. It is not the way I would have chosen to leave this world but it is what is going to happen and since I cannot stop it, my only option is to make the best of it. Do not misunderstand me, my friend, I am not prepared to simply surrender my life. I intend to fight with whatever means are available to me. But I am aware, as we all should be, that there will not be an ultimate victory and fighting may not even buy me time."

Joly nods grimly but Enjolras' resolve to put up resistance feeds his own determination.

"Will you attempt whatever I propose?"

"Within reason."

"You have not been taking garlic as I advised you in my letter, have you?"

To his credit, Enjolras remains serious.

"It is simply not used in America."

"Will you start now?"

The blond shrugs. "If you consider it beneficial and can endure all the comments our well-meaning friends will direct at you about trying to protect me from vampires, certainly. Or curing my vampirism, if Prouvaire has already suggested that is what I have. What reason do I have to refuse?"

"Perhaps, with all the jokes, there is some truth to all that. Is not a disease like a vampire? I have an idea that maybe there is some good reason behind garlic being so present in folk myths. I have witnessed its positive effect on some diseases carried by bad air and there is evidence of it being used throughout history. Is it not possible that people would have seen the symptoms of some diseases as the work of a supernatural creature and those who consumed garlic were spared or got better? This may have contributed to the myth… Forgive me, I have forgotten myself. On the question of your treatment…"

"I will comply with whatever you suggest," Enjolras tells him.

"Traditionally doctors would tell you to go to the country."

Enjolras smiles. "I would rather the garlic, Joly, as you well know."

Joly returns a smile of his own and manages to pour some courage and a bit of good humour into it.

"Taking it with olive oil helps eliminate the odor. Consume as much as you can, otherwise it is unlikely to have any effect."

Enjolras nods. "Thank you. On another matter… I am considering reestablishing some form of meetings. Courfeyrac has volunteered to host them for the time being. Would you be interested?"

Joly beams. "I would be delighted!" Impulsively, he gets out of his chair and embraces his friend. "It is good to have you back with us, Enjolras."

_And we will fight to keep you with us_, he vows silently.

**End Note:** Thoughts, comments, criticisms and, by the way, are you all slightly bugged by the site's new design? I preferred it when it was less crowded on the page…


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** Been busy but I'm back. Thank you all for the lovey feedback, keep it up and I hope you keep reading 3.

**18.**

"You are restless again."

Combeferre halts midstride and lifts his eyes from the carpet of the drawing room which he has been wearing thin lately. He sighs and nods, acknowledging his wife's unsurprisingly astute observation. She is in her nightgown, leaning on the doorframe with a thoughtful expression.

"I'm sorry. Go to sleep. You shouldn't have waited for me. You know I often work late."

"You are not working," she notes. "You are distracted. Is it Enjolras?"

Combeferre runs a hand through his hair tiredly and nods. "It is. I have been over all the literature I could find. I have spoken to colleagues. I feel inept. It is difficult to find anything beyond the already known treatments and those… are not very effective. I cannot live with it, Martine. I cannot bear the thought of being unable to help him to… to save him. I know it is beyond my capabilities but I cannot resign myself to it." He resumes his pacing. "Science is such a beautiful thing and there is no telling how far it could take us. The thought that a cure exists out there and it could be found some day but not quick enough…" He drops on the settee abruptly and rubs his face. She crosses the room and sits next to him.

"He is a strong man. Don't some people get better?"

He shakes his head.

"A tiny number. Tiny. It is essentially considered a miracle when it happens. It cannot be counted on. I am not ready to just go down on my knees and pray. I could try persuading him to go to a better climate but he is very reluctant. He does not think the possibility of that curing him is anywhere near realistic and he does not want to spend his remaining time separated from Paris and from us. I understand. The doctor in me supplies arguments but, if I am honest with myself, I agree with him. To be left somewhere to recuperate with no real hope for recovery is no life for him and if our time is limited we all want our share of it. But I cannot accept that it is an illness he is dying from and not something more… I don't know. I have learned to look death in the face, to predict it and announce it and to deal with it but this time I cannot."

She squeezes his shoulder and he feels through his shirt that her hands are cold. They often are, probably as a result of her height – she is nearly as tall as he is. He places them on his neck to warm them. His cravat has long been untied and deserted. Everything secretly frustrates him lately, even the clothes he is wearing.

"I would not wish for you to hope in vain," she says. "It's true that your friend will likely die. But have you not always said that the fight is more important than the outcome? A battle, be it physical or psychological or political, will always leave an imprint. I think you are so upset not because you fear you will lose but because you cannot find a way to fight. Is there nothing you can attempt?"

"There is something they have been experimenting with in England. It is quite obscure, I heard of it almost by accident from a colleague who has recently travelled there. But it is not clear if this treatment is at all beneficial and it is unpleasant. I am hesitant to use it. Even afraid it may do him more harm than good."

"What does it involve?"

"I must inject air in one of his lungs so it would collapse. While it is being unused, the theory is that it would have a better chance to heal. But it will be painful and incapacitate him further for at least two weeks."

"Have you spoken to him about it?"

Combeferre shakes his head.

"I am not certain I want to recommend it."

She thinks for a moment.

"Tell him about it and let him make the choice. If you must carry the burden of grief, don't carry the burden of the decision too. He is a grown man, very capable of making decisions from what you have told me. Whether he lives or dies or gets better or worse, it will not be your fault. You can only try to help."

"But it _is_ my responsibility. I'm his doctor."

"I thought that was Joly now."

"Both of us. I cannot even attempt to not be involved. My mind is on nothing but him anyway."

"Then speak to Joly and make the decision together, all three of you."

"I know. I will. It is the most logical thing to do."

"How is he otherwise?"

"He is well, considering. He is gathering us all Thursday evening in Courfeyrac's house. It will be interesting if everyone comes. I think they will, for him. We started seeing each other more often in the past months but we have never gathered all together except briefly when we went to meet him and Grantaire when they came back. I think everyone is excited about a meeting, and perhaps a little apprehensive."

"Because it may not be the same as before?"

"I don't know if it could ever be the same as before. So much has changed, and with Enjolras ill… But I hope – I know – it will be good for us."

"Perhaps you could make something new of it."

"Perhaps."

"Jacques... You should let me come with you."

He looks at her, startled. "To the meeting?"

"Yes. To the meeting. If you had a friend of whom you thought he shared your convictions, would you not try to recruit him and take him to a meeting?"

"In the old days, I suppose I would."

"I am your friend. And I share your convictions. Am I at a disadvantage because I am a woman or because I am your wife?"

"By God! No…" He looks bewildered for a moment, then thoughtful. "Strange, I never thought about taking you with me. We used to not let women in the Musain… You _have_ been a friend to me, no worse than them in any way. For a time, you were the only friend I had. And you have a mind no worse than any man's and better than most. But, Martine, we are such old friends…"

"And I am an outsider. No one likes an outsider."

Combeferre looks anguished. "Please, do not be offended! I am not even sure you will enjoy our company when we are in a mood to discuss politics."

She is frowning at him now. "You have discussed politics with me. Oh, don't you understand? I am not trying to replace them, on the contrary. I never wished to be something separate from your friends. I accept them, I forgave them their behavior around the wedding and I try to understand them. I want to be one of them, not to oppose them and certainly not to be the wife who fights with them for your time. I have heard you say you married me because you could never grow tired of me. Am I becoming uninteresting so fast that you need a rest and an alternative?"

"No! I am not tired of you but I never thought you would act jealous of my friends. I am happy to have them back, Martine, really happy. It does not make you less valuable but can you not just share me with them?"

She shakes her head. "You don't understand. I don't mind sharing you. But I do wish you would not alternate between us. And I do wish to be friends with your friends and to share as much of your life as possible. Of course, I don't want to do it by force." She pats his arm. "Very well, then. Go and be boys without the interference of women. I don't want you to lose any more sleep right now because you are worried about reconciling your family with your friends. You can speak to Joly tomorrow. Now come to bed."

Combeferre hesitates. "There is something else too…"

"What is it?"

"The king wants to see Enjolras."


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:** Thank you again for your comments and I will be very grateful if you keep reviewing. I am rather preoccupied with work on an actual novel in a very different genre so I can use the reminders not to leave this story un-updated. Thanks!

**19.**

"Collapse his lung?"

Joly frowns and stares absently at a fly buzzing and bumping into the closed window. He is trying to wrap his mind around the idea Combeferre has presented to him. Induced pneumothorax? It makes some amount of sense when he thinks about it but the suggestion has caught him by surprise. It certainly sounds scary but mainly because it will be Enjolras undergoing the procedure and all the pain and all the risks will affect them very personally. Excluding that, physical manipulations do not generally bother Joly. At the university he has been known to keep both presence of mind and a steady stomach during the most horrifying surgical demonstrations. It is dealing with headaches, fevers and coughs which worries him more than any operation and he can almost see the very air turning black around patients with more serious diseases. In such cases, when he comes home, he cannot get rid of the feeling that some of that air is sticking to his skin, crawling in through his mouth and clinging to the walls of his lungs. Ironically, it is exactly that area of medicine – the inner, more mysterious human ailments – that he has chosen to delve most seriously into, disregarding a possible surgical talent. He has always been drawn to things that frighten or disturb him, almost like a child picking at a scabbed wound. Yet he has had a chance to exercise surgery during the barricades and has noticed at the time that his touch is still surprisingly confident. He wonders now, if they are to perform this on Enjolras, which one of them should do it? Surely Combeferre is more suitable… isn't he? Whose hand will be steadier? Whose sight less clouded? Or perhaps they should find another, more experienced doctor. He can't comprehend why this perfectly rational thought does not sit well with him.

"Combeferre… Why is it us?" he asks.

Combeferre seems surprised and a little confused by the question. "What do you mean?" he asks. He has been waiting to hear Joly's opinion and his impatience, usually well-covered, is now visible.

"Enjolras," Joly clarifies. "Are we the best people to take care of him?"

Now it is Combeferre's turn to frown. "It seems to me the most natural thing, for us to care for him. Since we are doctors... You yourself came to me and asked to take over. Why are you asking this now?"

"Yes. Yes, I felt I should be involved. But maybe someone with more experience… Perhaps someone who has spent more time working with consumptives…" He doesn't really want to argue with Combeferre as much as simply hear a reassurance.

"Joly…" Combeferre crosses the room and puts his hands on his colleague's shoulders. "It is not a matter of skill. Are you worried about the procedure I am suggesting? The people who have attempted it in England are unreachable to us right now so we will be as experienced as the next doctor."

"Not only the procedure… I meant in general. What if things go wrong in some way? Could you bear it? Would you not blame yourself needlessly? Enjolras is too close to us."

"If it were any other situation I would understand your concern," Combeferre says. "But in this case… There is no known cure for what we are fighting, Joly. There is no one better. We have access to the same weapons anyone has. It is who wields them that matters and no one will be more determined than us."

Joly smiles crookedly. "You sound like you are talking about a revolution and not medicine. But I understand what you mean. It is again a fight that must be led by people who believe in it."

"It is not so much a revolution as the opposite this time," Combeferre replies. "In a revolution people fight for something illusive that they may gain and the final prize is but a dream for most of them. Here we will be fighting for what we can lose. And you and I both know exactly what kind of loss that will be. Such fights can be even more ferocious."

"Perhaps I am afraid," Joly admits, "but that is only natural. You are right – we have no choice."

A knock on the door interrupts them. It is Enjolras, looking decidedly unsurprised to see them both together in Joly's office.

"He is not scrutinizing you too closely, I hope," he says to Joly as he enters, tilting his head in Combeferre's direction.

"You think I have come to inspect his equipment and ask him for a report? Come now, Enjolras. You underestimate both of us. I trust him completely."

"Only a joke, my friend, take no offense."

"You have taken to joking a lot," Combeferre remarks mildly.

"Have I?" Enjolras lifts an eyebrow. "Perhaps you have merely forgotten in the time we have been apart how much I normally joke."

"Forget your character? I? I hope this was meant to be another joke?"

Enjolras chuckles. This exchange lifts Joly's spirits a little. Against all logic, Enjolras has become the most calming presence for him, after Lesgle. Combeferre can usually fill that role but now he is bending under more obligations than it is reasonable for one man to handle. The others are all very worried and it shows. Grantaire has become tense and somehow strange. Even Courfeyrac, when Joly sees him, is uncharacteristically restless and seems to not know where to put his hands. But Enjolras seems to understand everything that is happening, does not exude uncertainty and does not require reassurance. Joly tries not to think that this is only a façade. Such thoughts make him feel guilty; they make him want to go to his friend and comfort him while at the same time he doesn't know how to approach Enjolras about something like this.

Joly comes back to the present when he realizes the conversation has shifted to the actual reason for Combeferre's visit to his office.

"I came to ask your opinion on an experimental procedure we can attempt," Combeferre is telling their friend. "It is risky and unpleasant and there is no proof it works but I thought you should know about it."

Enjolras nods slightly as an encouragement for him to continue. Joly gets the feeling that Combeferre is fighting the urge to apologize as he explains about needles, pain, breathing difficulties and possible complications. Enjolras remains politely attentive.

"And you say it will take me several weeks to recover but I will not necessarily be bedridden in that time?" he asks finally.

"If there are no additional problems," Joly says.

"And it will not be advisable to wait?"

Joly shakes his head.

"If we let your condition progress further, it is likely to be completely pointless.

"And you two are in favour of attempting this treatment?"

The two doctors share a look. Combeferre sighs heavily.

"In complete honesty, I don't know, Enjolras. There is a risk and no guarantees for improvement. It will give one of your lungs a rest and give your body more of a chance to try to heal itself. That is all. I cannot pretend to be able to decide if it is worth it but…"

"But there is nothing else you can suggest," Enjolras finishes for him.

"Not… at the moment," Combeferre admits, defeated.

Enjolras looks at him for a while, then glances at Joly and nods. "Very well. Let us try. Inform me of when you can do it. And now, Joly, I believe you expected to examine me, today."

The examination serves to confirm that the healthier lung will be able to do the job of two satisfactorily. They schedule the operation for the following Monday, aware that the quicker they do it, the better – especially since Enjolras is still reasonably strong. While he hasn't deteriorated, he has a better chance of recovery from the procedure itself. Still, it seems to Joly too soon.

Their meeting at Courfeyrac's house is on Thursday – four days before the operation. The men arrive into the house one by one, each bringing a certain amount of tension which Courfeyrac does his best to dispel with wine, jokes and endless questions about everyone's lives. Lesgle does an admirable job of assisting him in this, even managing to make Feuilly laugh within five minutes of his arrival.

"And what of that girl of yours, Grantaire?" he asks when their resident cynic has arrived and been seated between Bahorel and Joly himself.

"Courfeyrac's wife found her a place as a kitchen maid in the house of some friend of hers," Grantaire answers with a shrug. "I have not heard from her which I am assuming to mean that she is faring well." His grin is slightly crooked.

"I am making a note to make Jacqueline enquire after her progress there," Courfeyrac promises.

"But what became of the whole court trial business?" Joly asks.

"Ah! Slight hitches there, I'm afraid." Courfeyrac frowns a little. "Tell him, Marius."

"The girl Bahorel and Lesgle rescued is now refusing to speak," Marius explains. "So Grantaire's friend is called to court the week after next as a witness, along with Bahorel and Lesgle."

"It is not exactly great news." Lesgle says. "The prosecutor seems a little worried. He didn't originally care about Mlle. Lenglen's testimony at all and now he seems to be counting on it. "

"I'll be damned if that can be called a prosecutor!"

Bahorel's first misses his glass by an inch. Courfeyrac manages to pacify him quickly enough and then Combeferre arrives. The subject changes to the operation on Monday. This topic dominates the conversation for a good twenty minutes before Enjolras enters the room and continues after that with a number of questions about how he is feeling.

"I am very grateful for your concern," he says finally. "But I have to tell you, my friends, that I find the topic of my health very boring. Could we perhaps direct our collective attention to something of bigger consequence?"

A few mouths open in indignation, ready to argue that their friend's health is of great consequence indeed but Prouvaire speaks first, giving their chief a guilty look.

"Forgive us, we didn't mean to be insensitive…"

Joly realizes with embarrassment that they have been exactly that – constantly reminding a sick person of his condition, discussing it continuously in front of him, rather than taking his mind off it... He has never made this mistake before but Enjolras has been playing unaffected so convincingly that maybe they have all stopped being careful about how their behavior may actually affect him. Even now he looks unmoved and gives Prouvaire a reassuring smile.

"I am not upset, Jehan, believe me. I simply have things I want to share with you that I find much more interesting."

From there, the meeting enters a more familiar territory as Enjolras asks in detail about the political changes in France since his departure and presents some elements of the American system for discussion. Courfeyrac's baby starts crying at some point and can be faintly heard from the other side of the house but other than that, the atmosphere is tentatively trying to approach that of the Musain, despite everyone being, in Joly's opinion, just a little rusty. Grantaire sitting to the side with his bottle completes the picture, except the man grows quieter and more thoughtful than usual in the second half of the evening. Perhaps he has just entered his melancholy drunk phase.

When the meeting is over, Joly heads home filled with a kind of restless energy which he recognizes well. It is a state often induced in young men when they have spent some time in the company of Enjolras. He welcomes the feeling but it keeps him awake nearly until dawn. He starts thinking first about the problems Enjolras has discussed, then about Enjolras himself, then about what they must do to him on Monday and what may happen after that. Another meeting has been scheduled for the next Thursday in the hopes that Enjolras will be well enough to attend. Joly tries to fix his mind on that point in time when the worst will be over. With the thought of that next meeting, he finally drifts off to sleep.

**End Note:** Artificial pneumothorax is indeed a form of therapy for tuberculosis. It started being used somewhat later in history but the first attempts were from that period.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: **Another one! You may have guessed by now that every distinct part of this story will be narrated from the points of view of two related characters. We are, of course, currently with the doctors.

**20.**

Hurting to heal is at the heart of the medical profession. Combeferre, a man prone to contemplation, has sometimes thought about the similarities between his chosen field and the work he has done in the name of his ideology. In medicine, as in revolution, getting better is usually an elusive promise of the future and it is only very rarely that progress can be achieved without an amount of pain and unpleasantness – often some losses too. You go and cut people, hurt people, make them ill with some new concoction, all the time prophesizing a better future for them. They can believe you or not. If they don't, you feel like Cassandra. If they do, they do so with innocent faith because you are the one who knows things. And then all of the responsibility is yours.

Enjolras is a special case though. He understands. He understands the future has a price and he understands that one must fight for it even if there is little chance of getting there. That does make a difference, makes Combeferre's burden a little lighter.

Combeferre is thinking this in order to both distract himself and focus, while Joly is concentrating on getting the needle in without tearing an adhesion. They have planned this very carefully and Combeferre has ultimately decided to assist while Joly performs the operation itself. It is not out of cowardice. Someone has to watch the patient, keep him still and look out for the tell-tail signs that something is wrong while the surgeon is busy. Combeferre has opted to do this job for a reason. Enjolras is sometimes difficult to read and no one would be able to tell better than him if his friend is in real danger. He has also done his best to keep the operation a secret in fear of attracting a crowd of doctors, medical students and even journalists. The procedure is new, experimental, and there will be curiosity. For everyone's good, and most of all Enjolras's, he does not want to risk too much interest. There is also the matter of Enjolras being a former revolutionary. Joly has not yet hired a nurse and they know that letting in someone from outside may be dangerous – whether because of incompetence or because someone may hold a grudge against their patient – so Combeferre decides there will be no outsiders present. This may be too paranoid but he is unwilling to take any chances while his friend is so vulnerable. There are however two other people in the room – Martine and Feuilly. Both have been picked for their level-headedness. Feuilly is helping in keeping Enjolras still and Martine is standing by, ready to pass or bring anything which may be needed. Enjolras has his eyes closed and is tense but mostly immobile through the majority of the procedure, until the moment when the needle pierces the pleura. Joly warns them with a look before he plunges it in and they are prepared for the sudden jerk.

"Almost done," Combeferre mutters without being quite sure whose comfort he is saying it for. He has his eyes wide open for anything worrisome. There is such a great list of things that could go wrong. The needle could go too far, an adhesion could be torn or the second lung may not be able to compensate for the collapsed one, not to mention the threat of infection but that is a concern for later on. He notes with some small relief that while Enjolras's breathing becomes more labored when his left lung collapses, it is not to the point of suffocation. Combeferre follows the proceedings carefully as Joly finishes up and covers the wound.

"It will scar," the younger doctor mutters.

Enjolras doesn't quite manage a snort but it is clear he would have liked to as he opens his eyes to look at them. Combeferre answers him with a small smile. "Your main concern, I know," he says.

There should be a decrease of tension in the room now that it is over but no one seems to really relax. Enjolras is still in pain and the rest of them do not know what to expect. With an established procedure they would have some idea of how well it has gone but with this new method there is little to compare to. They move Enjolras to a bed so he can rest, even though he starts insisting that he feels well enough to get up and go home fairly quickly. Combeferre silences him as the other three leave the room – Joly to compose himself, Martine to bring them food and Feuilly to tell their friends how it has gone. Everyone is gathered at Courfeyrac's again, waiting for news. Combeferre is grateful that they have not decided to come and wait in front of the door – there has been enough pressure without that.

He hesitates, trying to decide if Enjolras would rather be left alone to recuperate for a while. He is after all a somewhat private man and may not enjoy company in this state. In the end though, he cannot tear himself away. He sits down next to the bed. Enjolras opens his eyes again.

"Do not distress yourself," he says, "it is really quite pointless. And I feel fine."

"But… you are comfortable?" Combeferre asks. "Not in too much pain? Not getting too little air or…"

"I am as comfortable as might be expected, maybe more than is strictly necessary, considering that I don't think I actualy require a bed. I am managing a conversation with you so that must be an indication that I am doing well. In fact…" He props himself up. "I would rather enjoy speaking to you from a less horizontal position, seeing that I am fully capable of it."

Combeferre fusses with the covers a little to conceal his nerves before he speaks again. "If you are going to strain yourself only for the purpose of not showing me any weakness, I will have to leave to make sure I am not the reason for you not getting any rest."

The corners of Enjolras's mouth twitch slightly as he obediently relaxes against the pillow and closes his eyes again. "You are not bothering me, Combeferre. And I am afraid you will soon witness plenty of weakness from me, regardless of my desires on the matter. Not that you have never seen me weak in the past. As I said before, do not trouble yourself. I am among friends, among comrades, and few things could make me feel this much better. And since a born scientist has done so much to help the revolution, perhaps a born revolutionary could try to aid science in this small way. I do not mind being an experiment in this case."

"Please, don't speak of it like that…" Combeferre shifts uncomfortably and changes the subject. "You are certain you do not want us to tell your parents of the operation?"

"I am certain."

"May I ask why? They would want to know that their only son…"

"I am indeed their only son. As such, I risk being the focus of too much well-intended but perhaps ill-advised attention. You know I despise lying but in this case I find it necessary to withhold some information for the time being. They would put Joly and you under too much pressure if they knew what we were doing."

Combeferre shakes his head. "Joly and I? Perhaps you should worry less about us and more about your own well-being."

"Perhaps my well-being depends on my doctors not having to fight my relatives in order to do their job."

"It _is_ your decision."

"Yes, it is."

"It will be difficult to keep it from them. You know, they came to talk to me once already and I understand they have spoken to Joly as well. They know we are treating you."

"I will try to discourage them from such visits but if you feel you must tell them, then do so. I prefer not to volunteer the information."

Combeferre nods. There is silence for a while but it is more thoughtful than uncomfortable. They have gotten used to each other's company long ago and are now only getting reacquainted with the feeling of each other's presence. Combeferre wants to talk. Even more than that, he wants to listen. And he doesn't know how to initiate either.

"Enjolras…" he begins at last. "You know I wish to help as a friend, not only as a doctor…"

Enjolras studies him through half-opened eyelids for a moment. "You wish to cure my mind and soul if you cannot cure my body, is that it?" The question contains no trace of sarcasm.

"I wish it, yes. As much as it is within my capabilities. I will do everything. I feel sometimes… I feel that you are protecting us. Me. Comforting us instead of the other way around. I will not demand that you confide in me but I insist on you knowing that you can, should you feel the need."

"It is always harder on those left behind, Combeferre."

"From the point of view of a dead man, perhaps, but you are alive."

Enjolras considers this. "It would give me comfort to know that my disease is causing as little distress as possible. In this way, I _am_ thinking about myself when I am trying to make sure you do not fret more than necessary. It is no sacrifice. Just like organizing a revolution was no sacrifice. I deserve no sympathy for either. But it seems that you will not be at peace unless you are troubled." He smiles slightly again. "I am not sure what you expect to hear. I am not afraid. But I am sad. One can hardly help it. There is much I wish to see and do which I will not have the chance to. It saddens me that my parents and friends will miss me. I worry what effect my death will have on various people and I dread the path that will lead to it – but then, I don't believe _that_ is something anyone would look forward to. It is not the pain but the weakness and helplessness that I really hate to think about."

Combeferre swallows and takes a long breath. His throat has tightened but he refuses to give in to the impulse to cry. It would hurt Enjolras to see him so upset and if Enjolras himself can hold it together for the sake of his friends, then his friends must do the same for his sake.

"It is not over yet," Combeferre says finally. "So let us think of the fight ahead and not of what the end may be. This war may yet have a battle or two for us to win. And who knows? Grantaire travelled to America for you so anything must be possible."

Enjolras chuckles. "Indeed."

"Have you decided what you will do about the king? He made it clear to me the invitation for you to meet him was a request and not a command."

"I will see him. He has a good reputation. You yourself have said, I think, that he is a man of some vision and ideals and that the throne has not yet corrupted him."

"He is, as far as I have come to know him, an excellent and very clever man. I admit my emotions are mixed. He is doing some good work. The country is not exactly thriving but the people are less angry and they trust him. However, the fact that he is so popular means that there is unlikely to be another revolution soon."

"It will come."

"Perhaps. Surely. Do you never despair?"

"I do sometimes. But only at my personal inability to bring the future about. And yet where one man fails, the people will not fail. It will come. And I won't grieve for not being here to see it. Because I have seen it already, Combeferre. I see it every time I close my eyes."

_And I see it every time you open them_, Combeferre thinks. Indulging an impulse this time, he bends down to kiss his friend on the forehead. "Then keep them closed for now but don't stay in the future too long. You are still required in the present."

Leaving his friend to rest, Combeferre exits the room and goes to search for Joly. No one else is quite in their position but at least they can draw comfort from each other.

**End Note:** Thank you for reading and also thank you to all the people who have favourite and followed this story, not to mention everyone who have commented. Reviews are the fuel which keeps a writer going.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's note: **Apologies again for the long absence, I haven't forgotten you all. I am just very busy with original work but I'm working on this too. Also, I apologize if this one isn't very well edited. I opted for posting it quicker. I'll go over it later. Thanks for your understanding.

**21**

When Enjolras opens his eyes again, an orange stream of fading sunlight is pouring from the crack in the closed curtains of the window. He is alone in the room but he is sure Joly must be nearby. Most likely Combeferre as well. They would not leave his side easily so soon after the operation. He feels simultaneously touched and disquieted by the attention. Their presence has a peculiar effect on him and he is willing to guess that his emotions are behaving in quite the opposite way to what his friends would imagine. He has once infected their minds with thoughts of revolution, letting his own feelings overflow and wrap around them and soak them through. They infect him now in a similar way. When he is alone, his disease seems more bearable and the thought of his death does not disturb him so much. When he is alone, his mind is quiet and in order. But when his friends are with him, he feels like he is being tossed around by the waves of a stormy sea. There is so much pain, hope, stubbornness, despair, love, fear, loyalty, grief and compassion, all focused on his person, that he is afraid he is losing sight of the line between his feelings and theirs. To feel calm about his impending end becomes more difficult when he constantly sees evidence of how desperate they are to keep him. He has always seen himself as the symbol and instrument of a higher cause but he is unable to prevent the people he loves very dearly from seeing him as an important piece of their world which they are about to lose. Perhaps it is the slowness of it which makes it more difficult. He remembers the barricades where in the heat of the fight more than one life has been lost, but then there has not been enough time to think what could be done, rarely enough time to attempt and fail at saving anyone. It is difficult to part with a living person and so his friends are now subjected to the grief of death without the opportunity to move on. When he spends too much time with them, he begins to think in a similar way and that is when he wishes for time to go by faster. He wants to live or die but not to _be_ dying and watch people suffer for it. He feels responsible for prolonging their suffering. He doesn't like the fact that his death will not be in anyone's service and he wonders now if in addition to dying for nothing he is trying to live for nothing. Unlike the revolution, it seems that this fight with consumption can never be won and perhaps all he is achieving is making things more difficult – another hope killed, another disappointment, another battle lost for his friends.

And yet, there is always the instinct to fight. The fight which seems to make up most of his very core refuses to leave him.

There is a fly somewhere within the folds of the curtains. He can hear it buzzing and hitting the glass, trying to get out. Why does a fly throw itself at a barrier it has seen it cannot cross? Why does it not simply give up and save itself some pain and effort, forego the disappointment after every failure? Perhaps because it can see the other side – so close, seemingly so reachable. Because hope is not always logical, and it sometimes comes uninvited.

He pushes himself up on his elbows and is momentarily dismayed to find out how weak he is. His arms are trembling, barely able to support his weight and he feels a wave of dizziness wash over him along with a sharp bolt of pain. Nevertheless, he pulls himself to a sitting position. The exertion causes him to gasp for breath quite badly and he presses a hand to the thick bandage which covers his chest. The pain he is all right with but the inability to control his muscles does not sit well with him and he flatly refuses to accept it. He has told Combeferre that he would have been able to walk out of the clinic and he is still sure he could have done it then. The few hours of sleep have actually made it more difficult. He feels stiffer now, drowsier, weaker and even slightly faint. He wills those feeling away, telling himself he is merely still sleepy. He has always hated sleeping during the day. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and carefully straightens up. He stands there for a few moments, keeping his right hand on the wall, until he is sure he will not collapse. Then he lets go and walks to the window. Dusk is falling rapidly outside when he opens the curtains, the gray wave of an early evening chasing away the last gilded rays of sunlight. There is buzzing next to his ear. He opens the window and chases the fly out. The air of Paris hits him in the face and he closes his eyes. The whole mixture of small background noises washes over him.

_It's buzzing, too, isn't it? _

Enjolras sighs at the small immaterial voice in his head which has begun bothering him in the last few months. Don't talk nonsense to me, Grantaire, he thinks, not now. But the voice continues.

_The buzzing of a giant fly hitting a barrier, wanting to break through. Paris, France, a whole great organism striving for something. Who will open the window for them if you don't?_

Since when do you believe there is anything worth striving for beyond the window, Grantaire? You are only trying to somehow bind me to this world by duty, as if it is a matter of will to stay. You have made an all-powerful god out of me and you pray to me like the ancient Egyptians prayed to their Pharaoh, as if he was the Sun. It is everything I have never wanted to be and still it pains me to disappoint you. I cannot cure the ill any more than I can feed the hungry on the streets. I wish I could reward your faith, even if it is misguided, because it is faith nonetheless. But I cannot. It is not within my power whether I live or die. All I can do is to try and teach you again to believe in things that cannot die.

Perhaps I am not your god but the glass of your window and it is time you moved beyond me.

**End Note:** Grateful as always for any reviews, and I love you all.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:** Yes, yes, still here.

**22.**

"Well? What do you think?"

Combeferre is hoping the question hasn't sounded too nervous. He and Enjolras are making their slow way back after an audience with the king. Enjolras is still recovering from the operation but he has opted to walk and Combeferre has not objected. Even though it is late autumn, the day is warm and the fresh air might do them both some good.

Enjolras thinks a little before replying.

"He seems to be a good man," he says finally.

"He is far more active than his father, if nothing else," Combeferre supplies. "And not in the wrong direction."

"It seems so. But that is not the point, is it?"

"No." Combeferre sighs. "France should not be ruled by one man, no matter how good that man is. But I am not sure what the way forward is at the moment. Who will follow us if we try to fight now? The people are very… disenchanted with the Cause after so many disappointments. He seems to them like a savior."

"Is he?"

Combeferre gives his friend a sideway glance.

"I think he tries to be. Naturally, he is not superhuman, but he is at least very human. So far, he has brought only the hope for change and the evidence of some effort rather than any actual achievements but the people do like him. It will be very difficult standing against him."

"For you personally, as well as for us as a group."

Combeferre looks at him sharply this time.

"I am still and have always been a republican, Enjolras. I believe no less than before that a republic is the only fair way to rule a country. I will fight him if I have to."

Enjolras shakes his head. "I do not doubt your loyalty to your ideals, my friend. I am merely acknowledging the difficulty of your position. I can see that you did not expect to make a friend when you took this job."

Combeferre sighs again, heavily. "Forgive me, I should not be so defensive. As for Ferdinand… If he were not born a prince, I believe he may have been a republican himself. I do feel sorry that we may have to face each other as enemies one day but it has always been like this – there are always good people on both sides. I pray that God may help us find a way to achieve our goals without losing too many of France's good minds and souls. But what needs to be done will be done."

Enjolras nods. "I understand. It is not my desire to shed blood either but it is sometimes necessary. And the king… You speak for him as a friend and there could be no greater recommendation than that. You believe he can be trusted?"

"I believe so. I have tried to imagine the opposite. He is, of course, using me in a way. On one hand, employing a former revolutionary undermines all republican organizations. Through my projects and ideas, he may just be pacifying the crowds, throwing them bones to chew on rather than trying to achieve any real change. Politics is a complicated game and I do sometimes fear I may be completely wrong in my judgments. That is one of the reasons why I was so keen on you meeting him."

"You trust my judgment more than your own?"

Combeferre smiles a bit. "Perhaps I trust our judgment more than that of each one of us separately."

Enjolras returns his smile. "Now, _that_ I am more willing to agree with. Well… I cannot give you my final verdict with complete certainty but for the time being, I see no reason not to continue the approach you have taken. You are right – he is too popular for us to gather much support now. If he proves to be false, he will lose this popularity without our help. The people won't be fooled for long. If he proves to be true and does the nation some good… then we will try to be clever, keep the idea alive and achieve our goals through more subtle means, if a revolution is impossible at the moment. But my judgment of his character is the same as yours. I predict that if he does not agree with us, he will at least respect us and he will not try to stab you in the back. If you are to become enemies, there will be a warning. I also believe he sees me as a threat but intends to fight me fairly."

"He admires you. He has told me so."

Enjolras shrugs. "Perhaps. This is only my opinion but, as far as he is concerned, I believe we can rest easy. That does not mean other people around him won't try to eliminate us. My concern is that you are right there on the front line."

"I am more worried about you," Combeferre says. "In this case, my personal friendship with the king is an asset. He has made our mutual sympathy known – deliberately, I believe. It is good for his popularity but it also makes me a dangerous person to kill as it leaves the impression that whoever attempts it will be severely prosecuted. You on the other hand… Be careful, Enjolras."

"I am, but I cannot be too much so. Perhaps we should announce that I am sick and they may decide to wait rather than trying to go through the trouble of killing me."

Combeferre looks at him to try to discern if he is joking. His tone is completely serious but then, this is Enjolras and even his closest friends sometimes find it difficult to read him. As he views the pale face, framed by blond curls, something registers in his mind – something which he has not noticed before because he sees Enjolras every day and the change has been quite gradual.

"You have gained a little weight, have you not?"

Enjolras gives him a faintly startled look, as if he finds the change of topic quite unexpected. "I have tried. I may not be able to do much to stop this disease but I do not intend to aid it."

Combeferre nods in approval. "You look better. We will know if the treatment is working as soon as you recover completely and start using both of your lungs again." He does not mention how afraid he is to find out if they have made any progress. He suspects Enjolras knows anyway.

"I have arranged to meet Joly and Bossuet for lunch," Enjolras says. "They have a new favourite place these days – I hear it reminds them of the Corinth. Will you join us?"

Combeferre's eyebrows lift curiously but he nods. "Is there anything to discuss?"

Enjolras chuckles. "I can hear your thoughts, Combeferre. What is Enjolras doing arranging casual lunches? There must be something wrong here. No conspiracy, my friend. Bossuet invited me and I suspect he is delicately trying to remind Joly and me that we are not only doctor and patient and we can occasionally speak of things other than my lungs. I have to agree with him – I rarely see Joly outside of his office these days – so I have accepted to go. And since I suspect you and Joly talk of little but my health as well, perhaps it will be good for you to come with me."

"I shamefacedly admit that you are correct and I gladly accept," Combeferre says with half a laugh and half a sigh. "Lead the way."

Since the destruction of the Corinth and the closing of the Musain, their group has not gravitated around any particular place but Joly and Bossuet's chosen venue does possess a somewhat familiar atmosphere. Combeferre feels strangely self-aware as they enter and find their friends inside. He and Joly are now visibly more neatly and richly dressed than most of the patrons, mainly consisting of poor students. Even Bossuet is quite presentable and much less shabby than some – his job as an apprentice in a small law firm has surprisingly not ended in some kind of disaster yet. Combeferre realizes they all look older. More accomplished, yes, but without that precious boyish carelessness that the other occupants of this place seem to exude. Only Enjolras is the same, wrapped in his simple dark coat which would fit anywhere, his features seemingly untouched by time since those nights at the Musain years ago. Suddenly Combeferre finds that eerie. It is like all of them are moving on while their friend remains that same boy, forever frozen in time, like a ghost.

The unwelcome thought of death almost makes him cry but it would be wildly inappropriate here and now. What would his friends think of such a ridiculous, seemingly unprovoked display? Yet while Enjolras answers questions about his meeting with the king, Combeferre can't help wondering how many things he will never have the chance to find out. How would Enjolras look when he is fifty? Would he ever marry and have a child? What would he be working on twenty or thirty years from now if, God willing, they have established a republic? What man would replace the passionate boy, the young heart of the revolution?

He chases away the fleeting images of a non-existent future before they can make his eyes water and focuses instead on the story Bossuet is telling with much enthusiasm and obvious enjoyment.

"So this fellow is accusing his wife of infidelity, he swear he has seen her with another man. At the same time we find out that he himself has been accused of having been seen with another man's wife, and not any man but the one he is accusing of being with his own wife."

"I think I lost count of the wives and husbands," Joly complains.

"Only two husbands, my good man."

"Then, is there only one wife for them both?"

"The number of wives shall be revealed, let me finish. Both men are enraged, they want to take their children and leave their wives with nothing. They have both gone to court and they are ready to tear each other apart because each one thinks, well, that other bastard has not only slept with my wife but is now accusing me of doing the same with _his_ wife. The first trial starts and a wife is called to the stand."

"Whose wife?"

"That is the question! The poor woman is in tears and has no idea why this is happening to her. And then _the defendant_, visibly astonished, shouts 'But this is my wife! What is she doing here now? I am due to deal with her affairs this afternoon!' The wife, even more shocked, declares that she has never seen him. The man she claims is her husband turns to the accused and says 'Are you completely mad? This is my wife, not yours and even she confirms it! She may have been kissing you in public but she is not your wife.' 'But how is it possible for her to look like my wife and talk like my wife if she is not my wife?' the accused asks. Now, can you guess how this all turns out?"

"Like a true reenactment of Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors, does it not, Bossuet?" Combeferre asks, laughing.

"Indeed! There were two wives, neither of them unfaithful. They were simply twins, separated very young when their parents parted ways. And the moral of the story, my friends, is to always admit the possibility that something which looks like your wife and talks like your wife may not indeed be your wife."

Combeferre chuckles and is in the middle of pouring himself a glass of wine when his eyes accidentally fall on Joly. The other doctor is staring into the middle distance with a fiercely thoughtful expression.

"Is anything the matter?" Combeferre asks.

His friend blinks, pulled out of his thoughts, shakes his head and smiles. "Nothing." But he remains a little distracted for the duration of their lunch. Combeferre guesses that he is once again worrying about Enjolras, struggling to find a solution. His own brain is automatically trying to focus on the same problem but he forces it to take a rest. If he does not, he risks becoming completely stuck soon. He gradually manages to relax into the friendly atmosphere and enjoy himself but then after lunch Joly pulls him aside. His eyes are troubled.

"What is it?" Combeferre asks.

The other man twirls his cane in his hands nervously and when he speaks, it sounds like nonsense.

"Whoever heard of coughing chickens? He wanted to know the source too and he was thorough – he told me he checked back with the hospitals he visited and there were no recorded cases…"

Combeferre blinks at him in confusion and concern.

"Joly, you are not making any sense."

Joly takes a deep breath and looks at him.

"We have something which looks like consumption and sounds like consumption but we can't identify how he got it. What if it isn't consumption?"

**End Note:** Oh, look – a cliffy! Whoever is still reading, I'd love to hear from you all.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: **Happy holidays, everyone! Thank you to those who are still here. We are slowly coming closer to the end of this story but there's still a way to go. I hope you are all having fun celebrating.

The medicine here is quite smudgy so don't take it for gospel truth. A lot of it is based on real facts and I do my research but it's extremely questionable if the combination of things going on is at all plausible, especially in the time period. The boys are, unluckily, a few decades shy of great medical discoveries like the germ theory but even in their age and earlier, there were people ahead of their time. 'A New Theory on Consumption' – the text which Joly reads here – is an actual book published in 1720.

PS – Grantaire returns in the next chapter.

**23.**

They have spent the whole afternoon in his office, door tightly shut and curtains drawn, as if they are conducting some secret ritual. Perhaps they are, Joly thinks – trying to extract answers from the cosmos itself, maybe. They have locked themselves here and closed and covered the windows because they want to eliminate all possible distractions; to force their minds to concentrate and analyze without the possibility of something being overlooked.

At first when Joly has started talking about an unidentified disease Combeferre has nearly dismissed the suggestion as mad but in the end he has agreed to discuss it. After all, any idea concerning Enjolras's health should be examined – even the wildest one. There is nothing to lose.

"I still maintain that you are only basing your theory on a ridiculous amount of speculation and some vague hunch," Combeferre says. He is leaning forward, both of his palms flat on Joly's desk and he is staring at the wooden surface with great concentration, as if all the information he needs is encrypted there but he cannot break the code.

"It is not all that far-fetched," Joly argues. "Think how many diseases present with the same signs and how difficult it is to learn to distinguish them! Consider for example fever, cough and headaches. How many illnesses could that indicate? And some of them are not treated the same way. I am sharing this with you because I'm afraid, Combeferre. If we are treating the wrong disease, the risk is even greater than we thought that we might be causing him harm."

Combeferre pales but manages to sound firm. "I will not begin to panic over a fantasy, Joly. Your suggestions seem to me to have as little base as your own imagined conditions. Medical theory says consumption can develop spontaneously, I don't know why you think that not being in contact with an obviously sick person is significant. If I did not know you better, I would suspect this to be a simple display of cowardice and looking for excuses not to treat him."

Joly flushes both at this accusation and at the reference to his hypochondria but he is not ready to back down. He crosses and uncrosses his legs convulsively and plays with his pocket watch while trying to formulate his thoughts, quite fidgety in contrast to Combeferre's tense stillness. He feels simultaneously weak and inclined to run circles around the room. "We disagreed with what medical theory says, remember? About how spontaneously the disease may develop."

"I remember," Combeferre acknowledges reluctantly. "I do believe being in contact with a sick person greatly increases the chances of contracting it. But that does not necessarily mean that in some cases…"

"Remember Marten and his theory?" Joly interrupts.

Combeferre frowns a bit. "The Englishman? That book from a century ago?"

"Yes. I have been reading it a lot lately." He rummages around his shelves for a copy of 'A New Theory on Consumption'. He finds it easily, flips through the pages to find the right passage and reads out loud. "_The Original and Essential Cause,_

_then, which some content themselves to call a_

_vicious Disposition of the Juices, others a salt_

_Acrimony, others a strange Ferment, others a_

_malignant Humour (all which seem to me dark_

_and unintelligible) may possibly be some certain_

_species of Animalcula or wonderfully minute_

_living Creatures, that, by their peculiar Shape,_

_or disagreeable Parts, are inimicable to our Nature; but however capable of subsisting in our_

_Juices and Vessels, and which being drove to the_

_Lungs by the Circulation of the Blood, or else_

_generated there from their proper Ova or Eggs,_

_with which the Juices may abound, or which_

_possibly being carried about by the Air, may be_

_immediately convey'd to the Lungs by that we_

_draw in, and being there deposited, as in a proper_

_Nidus or Nest, and being produced to Life, coming to Perfection, or increasing in Bigness, may_

_be then spontaneous Motion and injurious Parts,_

_stimulating, and perhaps wounding or gnawing_

_the tender Vessels of the Lungs, cause all the_

_Disorders that have been mentioned, viz. a more_

_than ordinary Afflux of Humours upon the Part,_

_Obstruction, Inflammation, Exulceration, and all_

_other the Phaenomena and deplorable symptoms of this Disease._"

Combeferre looks thoughtful. "Yes, I remember we read this together. What of it?"

"He also suggests that Animalcula are specific to different diseases. Perhaps if we could somehow look at these creatures…"

Combeferre sighs. "I believe the main thing about them is that they are invisible, Joly."

"Yes, but perhaps they still leave a trace. After all, you can tell there are ants by the ant hill even if you are not close enough to see the creatures themselves. I simply wish to try something. It will not hurt him. I will find a patient with consumption and collect some sputum from them and from Enjolras as well as from a healthy person. If there are any tiny creatures anywhere, I will hope to see some evidence of them. And if they are different in Enjolras and the other patient…"

"What then?"

"I don't know. I…" Joly falters trying to find some solid ground in the sea of speculation and worry they have been drowning in lately. The silence stretches.

"No, you are right," Combeferre says at last, finally pushing himself off the desk. "We may learn something new and that is reason enough to try. Even if we learn nothing it will still…" He pauses. "But there _is_ a downside. You will be exposing yourself to even more than the usual amount of danger by being in close proximity with patient samples."

Joly nods and swallows dryly. He has thought about that fact and his stomach knots at the idea of falling ill but the desire to be working on something instead of repeating 'eat well and rest' over and over again is stronger. "I will be careful. And in the meantime we will follow him very closely. If he gets worse suddenly, perhaps we have been going in the wrong direction."

Combeferre sighs heavily and shakes his head. "And I nearly called you a coward. I'm very sorry, I have not been myself lately. Too many unknowns. With Enjolras, with everything. I feel like a liar and charlatan who offers nothing but coloured water to desperate gullible customers."

"Enjolras is anything but gullible."

"True but he does not have many options."

"That is why we are trying to create some for him." Joly pauses and suddenly chuckles. "Was I not on the opposite end of a similar conversation recently?"

Combeferre gives him a tired but genuine smile. "That is why I am so glad we are in this together. The need for support is mutual."

Joly smiles and pours them some wine. "You will support my insane experiments then?"

"I will if you promise to be very careful and not expect anything."

"I promise. I won't lie, I am rather proud I have succeeded to convince you. It has been an unsuccessful afternoon for both Enjolras and Lesgle though."

"What do you mean?"

"Both of them were hoping to make us think about anything but Enjolras's health today."

Combeferre gives a humourless laugh. "Indeed. He dislikes it very much. The fact that he has possessed our thoughts completely and not with his ideas but with his physical person is unacceptable to him. He would much rather we spent this time considering his views on the political situation."

Joly smiles a little but then becomes thoughtful. "Do you believe there will be another revolution in our lifetime? I am certain the Cause will live on _for France_ but have you considered that perhaps it is dead _for us_ in particular?"

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. "Do you think it is?"

"It seems farther now than ever before – at least when he is not in the room with us. When he dies, whenever that may be, will we continue to meet?"

Combeferre looks away from him, probably in an attempt to hide how much the topic upsets him, but his voice is firm when he replies. "The world does not stop turning in mourning of anyone, Joly. Not even Enjolras. I will personally try to make sure that we do continue to meet. Grantaire has managed to convince me that we should not let the connections rot away."

"As friends, yes, we will meet. But as revolutionaries?"

"Are you arguing the point that we are not revolutionaries anymore?"

"I am not arguing anything. I am… a little lost." Joly is speaking cautiously, vaguely expecting Combeferre to become angry or upset. The words seem sacrilegious. "Some things seem to me like they happened in another life."

To his surprise, Combeferre smiles. "I think you are mixing two different things. Are we revolutionaries now? Perhaps not. We are not planning a revolution. But are we not still republicans? And, above all, are we not still defenders of the rights of man? Because if we are not, then we never were. Progress is the key here and there is more than one way for progress to be achieved. Are you trying to tell me that there might come a day when you might not strive towards it? No, my friend, I do not believe that. Our ideals are part of who we are and they will always make us reach for the future. I think the source of Enjolras's eternal faith is that he knows there will always be people like us and people like him. There will always be someone to inherit the dream."

"You are making me think of the possibility that it might be our own children. They have started popping up, incredible though it seems."

Combeferre brightens. "Ah yes. While it is difficult to imagine Marius's daughter as much of a future rebel, I suspect at least Paris will not be left without a proper Courfeyrac replacement. Whether it is our own or not, it will not matter. Perhaps a child is being born now somewhere in France who will be the next Enjolras."

"Don't you wish he had fathered a son of his own though?"

"Enjolras? I don't believe he has ever considered it. Maybe he would have after some years if the republic had succeeded and if he hadn't fallen ill. Who knows. That is not the world we live in. And with him still living and breathing I feel it's too early to speculate about his successor."

"No, of course. He may have many years ahead of him still." _I just hope we don't end up killing him_, Joly thinks.

**End Note:** As always, I'm very curious to know what you are all thinking!


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:** Happy (belated) New Year, my dears and welcome to the fandom to the newcomers who are here because of the movie. Enjoy yourselves, kids, and maybe try to read at least the bits of the book you find interesting. I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed and especially those of you who took a moment to tell me what you liked or to comment on something – I appreciate it very much. Cheers!

**24.**

Paris is soaked and miserable again, huddled like a beggar girl under the rain. It is the same time of year as when Grantaire and Suzanne have met for the first time. Soon they will be crossing the same street. These are probably some of the reasons for her uncharacteristic silence and brisk, nervous pace.

"I'm an old man in my thirties, Suzanne," Grantaire calls after her when she speeds up again, leaving him lagging behind. "Can't walk so fast, have mercy on me. Funny thing, most people would not be so eager to return to that neighborhood."

She sighs and stops, waiting for him to catch up before starting forward again, only slightly slower.

"I want to be done with this." Her voice sounds as nervous and tight as her moves look. "I should not be seen in this part of town, not now. Some of the girls… If they learn I have a place as a maid while they are still hitching their skirts up at street corners they may not be exactly happy for me. They will try to drag me down."

"Ah, yes," he says with a crooked smile. "There is only one thing the poor hate more than the rich and that is when one of _them_ somehow does slightly better than the others. The family you are working for don't know much of your history, I presume?"

"Oh, they do. I was never good at inventing lies. They know but they are prepared to swallow it as long as it remains a secret to their friends. But if rumors start flying that they are employing a former prostitute they may not be thick-skinned enough to keep me. I cannot be let go, Grantaire."

He nods in understanding. Holding on to her job could mean the difference between a passable life and death in misery. He wants her to stay employed too. Only… He sometimes feels a little jealous of her employers. A selfish part of him wants to go back to the time when she has been more dependent on him; when he has been able to offer her things she would not get elsewhere. She would hate him if she knew and he doesn't like himself much either for wanting to feed off a girl's vulnerability.

. "Grantaire, why did you volunteer to come?" she asks suddenly. "I have not seen you at all since I started working and suddenly you want to escort me as I go to beseech a street girl to show up in court."

His lips twist ironically. "Perhaps I simply wanted a walk around these parts out of a sense of nostalgia? If you would just go and stand beneath that street light over there it will be just like…" Her look of sheer hatred sobers him and he bites his tongue and continues more seriously. "You said yourself being seen at this place does not improve one's reputation. I thought perhaps it may be better for young Marius, perfect husband and father that he is, not to go making house calls to a woman of very questionable virtue. At the same time, you do need an escort. It is not a safe neighborhood."

"I used to _live_ here." Her tone is chilly and he knows he has antagonized himself to her with that reference to the night they have met.

"That makes it no safer. And I did want to see you. It _has_ been a while."

She glances at him and purses her lips slightly. "You could have easily seen me at any time if you wanted to. I asked after you when the Courfeyracs came for dinner one night and I felt like a fool not knowing what was happening to you at all. I told them to give you my regards when they saw you and I admit I expected… something. A note at least. We spent months sleeping in the same bed; did that make you so bored with my company that you flat out refused to see me? It is not like I can demand attention – I realize I owe you the world, for God's sake – but the way you were acting the last time I saw you suggested…" She pauses and exhales, seemingly having run out of steam. "…that we were friends."

Her indignant little speech unties a little knot of tension inside him and he suddenly laughs. "You've missed me, my little ragdoll."

"Bloody bastard. Who do you think you are?"

He takes her arm, still grinning. "A bloody bastard, like you said."

She huffs but doesn't push him away. "I never know with you, Grantaire! One moment a person can count on you, you make such grand gestures that I question your sanity and the next you disappear completely only to reappear without a warning and start spilling your old cynisms and insults."

He sighs. "It is because I am a fool, my dear. Mostly drunk, often rude, in rare cases helpful but always a fool. You were busy settling at your new position and I was busy getting drunk and worrying about Enjolras. If you had sent word you needed me for something, I would have come, I promise you."

She looks affronted. "You really think that is all I would seek you for – If I want something! I assure you, I don't want anything more from you."

He shakes his head. "I believe I have discovered the root of our misunderstandings, Suzanne. You do not want to want anything from me and I rather prefer it when you want something from me."

"You like it when I owe you."

"I like it when you need me. I'm sorry, I realize that's terribly self-centered of me."

"That is quite interesting because that is one insult I had not thought about."

"You can have it, I will charge you no fee."

"Always the gentleman except when you are not."

He chuckles. "Listen, I… At first I really was preoccupied. Or – more accurately – overwhelmed. Seeing them all together again was wonderful but… things are very different. I would have gladly had the pleasure of your company more than once but then I thought your employers may not appreciate their evenings being interrupted by some drunk ragtag asking after their maid."

"So you only missed me when you were drunk. You could not possibly have come to call on me like a normal person."

"It is incredible what simple tasks I am sometimes unable to complete."

"You realize saying this does not make you endearing."

"Endearing?" He sniggers. "Not at all. You know I get chastised often enough by Enjolras for my tendency to know and state my shortcomings but not correct them. It drives him mad." He smiles a little. He is truly happier and more at peace now that his idol is back but the knowledge that Enjolras is there to keep an eye on things makes it easy to slip back into his comfortable persona of the loud drunk in the corner. Enjolras really is rather cross about that whenever he can spare enough attention but that has not been often lately. These days he seems as busy as he has been before the revolution, as if he is racing to meet a deadline. He is putting things in order for when he won't be there, Grantaire realizes. The notion chills him to the bone.

"How is Enjolras?" Suzanne asks him, as if somehow sensing his thoughts. Or perhaps it is not so difficult to read them on his face.

"I wish I truly knew," he replies with a sigh. "He seems himself at least but he is so good at hiding his discomfort sometimes that I don't know if he is genuinely feeling well or merely convincing himself with the power of will that he is well enough to do his work. He is not neglecting himself – that much is evident. He eats well, he rests, and he strictly follows the instructions of his doctors – even in regard to eating garlic. Courfeyrac never stops joking about it and Lesgle tries very hard not to laugh so Joly would not be mad at him. I don't know. He looks well. Damn, it might have been easier if he didn't. Sometimes I can almost forget he is ill."

At those moments he feels like he can breathe more easily before Enjolras muffles a cough in his handkerchief and the iron ring tightens around Grantaire's chest again. Looking across a room at the beautiful youthful face, the vivid eyes, the easy grace of his posture, Grantaire thinks that God would not dare take him; that he must be getting better, that something will happen, some miracle befitting of their angel.

"Hope makes it harder. It always does," Suzanne says with a sudden softness that makes her sound younger than usual.

Grantaire cannot quite work up the courage to tell her that this is not the only hope he is afraid to harbor; that the journey has changed him, or at least unlocked a half-forgotten part of him, and some nights he neglects to get drunk in favour of lying awake as ideas and notions he has long ago stopped associating with himself swim in his head. A door has opened a tiny crack and he does not know if it is a chance or a trap; if he will be able to fly free of the prison he has built for himself or if it will slam shut before he is through and cut him in two. Soon he will have to decide what to do about it.

"We're here," Suzanne says, nervous again, and grips his arm a little tighter.

**End note:** As always, I am shamelessly reminding you to review, especially since it does help to keep me going.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note:** All right, my dears, here is a longish chapter and a longish Author's Note for it as I feel the need to address some things. First of all, I would like to thank anyone and everyone who has paid attention to this story and especially those of you who have taken the time to review. I really appreciate it. However, I am going to disappoint some of you by reminding you that the **character specification** on does not in fact equal **pairing**. It indicates what the main characters are but it does not necessarily indicate that they are shagging each other or even in love with each other. So I'm really sorry but Enjolras and Grantaire are extremely unlikely to rip each other's clothes off or make any romantic declarations here. You are however very welcome to write an AU of this fic where they do, if you so wish, since some of you seem to like the setup, just not the fact that those two are not romantically involved. I know this is extremely offensive in the Les Mis fandom but most of the characters in this story are straight or at least generally straight in the case of Joly and Bossuet. I'm not sure about Jehan but I don't really care. Grantaire may or may not have had a crush on Enjolras, I don't know. At this point in time it is no longer relevant and in either case, he is perfectly capable of fancying women too. Don't get me wrong, I love E/R. I have written shameless self-indulgent E/R fluff so you are welcome to that. It is worse written than this, in my opinion, but it exists for the purpose of light entertainment and that's how much effort I put into it. If, on the other hand, you want to read high-quality E/R, go to Colonel Despard's profile in case you haven't and find the E/R stuff. There are also other great authors on the site but I obviously can't list all here. So E/R is awesome. But do consider the possibility that the idea of Grantaire having all of this love and veneration for Enjolras without wanting to throw him naked on a bed or kiss him passionately on top of the barricade may in fact have some merit and that maybe sometimes when we are writing it all off as sex and romance we may be simplifying an emotion which is more complex and potentially more interesting.

The other biggest no-no in the fandom is women unless they are Eponine and hooking up with Enjolras. And even that pairing normally belongs to one half of the fandom which is at odds with the other half who think the Amis don't need women in their lives because they are hotter when they are sleeping with each other and anyway, trying to build a female character and not make them a Mary-Sue is too damn hard. (I can testify to the last.) Well, look, I don't **need **a man in my life in order to fill like a wholesome person but that sure as hell doesn't mean I am never intending to marry one. This story is not about women. It's not about men either. It's not even about romance even if that shows up once in a while. It's mostly about friendship and personal growth and it is here because sometimes the fandom needs to experiment instead of beating the hell out of dead horses. It doesn't mean we have stop beating the dead horses we like but just once in a while I personally feel the need to do something else, k? So here's my suggestion. If you like my style so much but not what is happening in the story why don't you suggest prompts to me and if I get the time and inspiration I will try to whip up some stories to satisfy them. It will be my pleasure. This one however will head where it has always been heading, sorry. :) Love you all and if you are still reading, enjoy this chapter.

**25.**

It doesn't take long for Grantaire to realize that this has been a mistake. They are the worst possible pair for this job. He is a somewhat large man with no handsome features to distract from that fact and he has made no particular effort to look refined. He can tell that the girl, who has only reluctantly allowed them into her room, is intimidated by him. This is not only making him feel unpleasant but making her even less likely to trust them. Suzanne is not welcome either. She has been right about her former sisters by fate resenting her. Perhaps they should have let Marius come after all – he might have made a more favourable impression. His rich clothes would have been a point against him but his earnestness may have made up for it.

As Suzanne is futilely trying to be persuasive, Grantaire looks idly around. The room is small and dirty, as could be expected, and there is not much to see. A bed, a table and two chairs, that is all. His eyes fall instead on the girl in front of them. She is thin and rendered particularly ugly by the fact that one can tell she has been meant to be beautiful. Her features are symmetrical and her lips naturally full despite her emaciated state. She is blonde and blue-eyed but, combined with her sharpened features and sickly pale skin, this fairness makes her look sinister rather than attractive. Her dress hangs on her scarce chest and her teeth have been blackened from chewing tobacco. Grantaire suddenly wants to be away from her presence. There is something unbearable about this desecration of health and beauty. Susu, even in her worst days, has never looked this bad to him. Perhaps because she has never been a striking beauty her figure and features have endured the hardships of life better. But this girl, this girl looks like something which has been whole and is now broken and the cracks have been filled with fear and spite.

"Me in court?" She snorts but there is no amusement in the sound. "Who'd believe the likes of me? When that bastard walks free, who'd he be lookin' for, missie? Not for you in your big ol' house you is livin' in now! It's me he'll come for!"

"But he tried to kill you already without you having done anything," Suzanne points out. "And if he walks free he will kill someone else."

"It's hard enough keepin' myself alive, I can't think of the next poor fool. And I've learned my lesson. I ain't going' away with no strangers no more."

"What about the men who saved you? They weren't only thinking of themselves, were they? And they were there because I alerted them about him, otherwise you would have been dead."

"An' I thank you and them very much but it ain't worth payin' you with my life for savin' my life."

"You won't! He will be locked up!"

"If it were that easy to lock him up, why did you not lock him up when you was the victim? Why was he free to pull a knife on me?"

"I… I was alone then. With both of us testifying…"

It is a lost cause, Grantaire can see that. Suzanne does not even believe herself and she speaks with no conviction.

At that moment, there is a knock on the door. The girl's eyes dart suspiciously between them before she stands to open, as if this unexpected new visitor could have something to do with them. To Grantaire's complete astonishment, it turns out that he does. The door opens and there is the patron saint of lost causes himself.

"Enjolras!" Grantaire exclaims. "By God, what are you doing here?"

"Bonjour, Grantaire, Mlle Lenglen." He nods at each before turning to the girl who is staring at him with equal amounts awe and suspicion. "Apologies for disturbing you. I am looking for Mlle Sophie Colbert. I am her lawyer's assistant."

"I'm it but I ain't got no lawyer. I ain't done anything!"

"Of course not. I meant lawyer merely in the sense of a person who considers it their duty to defend your interests in court as M. Pontmercy does. I am only here to let you know what your rights are. If I may please come in…"

The girl blinks in confusion but steps aside to let him in. He comes in and Grantaire can almost see the room light up. Suzanne gives him a confused look but he can only shrug as Enjolras places his hat on the table and turns around, casually taking hold of the back of a chair.

"I will try to be short. You, mademoiselle, have the right to live. Anyone who threatens your life must be accordingly punished. But beyond that, you have the right to live a life of health, dignity and freedom. A life free of fear. You have the right to be protected by the laws of the land and you have the right to be heard and treated with respect. Despite how it may seem to you, mademoiselle, there are still people in France who believe in those rights of yours and two of them acted upon that belief when they saved you. They want no payment in return. All they want is for you to acknowledge that you are someone. That you matter. That you will not lay down your rights to be walked all over. You are important, mademoiselle."

It is not so much the words he is speaking, Grantaire thinks. The words are trivial. In another man's mouth they may have sounded cheap and shallow. But it is the way Enjolras speaks and the way he looks as he does it which set him apart. The furrowed brows on his high forehead and the burning passion in his eyes as he looks straight into yours, challenging your heart... His voice, which is sharp, rich and warm at the same time as he demands to know who you are and what you stand for... And it has to be admitted that it isn't all skill and passion. His beauty doesn't hurt either. There is just something very engaging about the juxtaposition of his delicate features and his masculinity, his ever persisting youthfulness and the strength of his character and convictions. One looks at him and thinks that his physical body must have been crafted in an artist's studio but his iron-clad philosophy must have been fashioned by a very talented blacksmith. Both are beautiful and intricate and together they are mesmerizing.

This is quite evident on the face of their hostess who looks like she doesn't know what has hit her. Grantaire doesn't blame her. What woman in her position would have imagined a man like that visiting her, calling her 'mademoiselle' and talking to her about her worth? Ah, no. They _would_ have imagined it. But they would have never believed it could happen for real. And maybe that is one of the ways Enjolras has recruited people for the Cause – once he has managed to make you believe he is real, it is easier to believe in other incredible things.

Yet there is something unusual about his speech today. It would not be noticeable to a man unfamiliar with his manner but he is speaking unusually softly and pausing for breath much more than is normal for him. It is customary for Enjolras to move as he speaks and use his body language to further illustrate his points but this time he remains mostly still, leaning slightly forward over the back of the chair he is standing behind.

All of this however does not seem to diminish the impact. There is a different kind of intensity to this sparing performance and it is just as effective. The final blow comes when Enjolras offers the woman his hand. She takes it tentatively and a little shakily. He places his other hand on top and says with utmost seriousness: "I believe you will make the right choice."

He has won this one, Grantaire is sure of it. Women are usually even more receptive to his persuasiveness than men even if he rarely directs his words specifically at the female population. Grantaire, feeling a bit softened and charitable himself after Enjolras's speech, is willing to allow that perhaps in some cases the fact that the gentler sex are predisposed to sympathize with him is due to some motherly or sisterly instinct rather than mere infatuation.

Whatever the reason, by the end of the visit, the woman has agreed to speak in court and the three of them take their leave together.

"What in the world are you doing here?" Suzanne asks immediately when they are out the door.

"Ah, well," Enjolras says, "I believe an apology is in order. I am…" He stops, leans slowly on the wall of the building and presses a hand to the left side of his chest.

"Enjolras!" Grantaire takes hold of his arm, immediately alarmed, and he sees that Suzanne has done the same on his other side. "Are you unwell?"

The younger man lifts a hand, indicating for him to wait and, after a few moments, straightens and takes a breath. "Pay no heed, it is only the collapsed lung. It is – unsurprisingly – giving me trouble."

Grantaire frowns. "Should that not have been better by now?" He is still holding on loosely in case Enjolras needs the support.

"It is the other one," Enjolras says. "There was some debate but in the end Combeferre and Joly concluded there had been some benefit from that treatment so we repeated it on the other side."

Grantaire grimaces. "Do the others know of that?" He hopes he is not the only one who has not been told.

Enjolras shakes his head. "I do not exactly keep it a secret and I am sure Combeferre and Joly may have mentioned it to people if the conversation seemed to require it but after we did it once it is no longer a novel procedure and it seems decidedly silly for me to constantly officially announce what is new in my health affairs. I know you all care and want to know and I don't begrudge you the information but I don't want it to be the cause of excessive concern."

Grantaire sighs. "I suppose we are invading your privacy but..."

"You are all simply caring friends, Grantaire. I cannot and I do not blame you for that. You are allowed to ask me questions. I simply prefer, when I can, to keep the focus on what I am thinking rather than what my body is feeling."

"But even so, if you have had an operation recently, you should be home resting," Suzanne says.

Enjolras smiles faintly, frees his arms gently, and places a hand on each of their shoulders. "That is what I intend to do, I promise you. But sometimes a man must take care of his mind as well as his body. I was feeling restless, that is why I went out. Since you are both this concerned, you may walk me home." He starts forward without any more ceremony and, after sharing a look, Grantaire and Suzanne follow. "In answer to your question of how I came to be here," Enjolras continues, "I met Marius by chance and he told me where you were headed. I thought – extremely presumptuously, I admit – that you may need help."

Grantaire snorts. "Damn right we did."

"We probably did," Suzanne says too with a little sigh. She is fond of Enjolras by now but Grantaire suspects she still harbors a small amount of resentment for his unconscious tendency to be very nearly perfect.

"I had no intention to be patronizing, it is simply that neither of you have ever trained to be lawyers," Enjolras says.

"Or given inspiring speeches on weekly basis," Grantaire adds with a snort.

Enjolras smiles. "Or given speeches on weekly basis about inspiring things."

"Have it your way."

"Thank you for coming," Suzanne says, looking over at him. "It was very important and I do think we were failing miserably."

Enjolras smiles again. "There is a certain pleasure a man can only get from completing a task which has been worthwhile."

Grantaire starts to say out of sheer habit that he wouldn't know how that feels. He stops himself when he thinks of his trip to America. Cynic or not, he cannot deny the warm feeling of accomplishment which fills him at the thought of reuniting Les Amis with their leader. He has entertained the thought that he might have felt happier if he had never gone there and never learned of Enjolras's sickness but he does not really believe that. Despite the worry, the fear and grief, these past few months have been precious. He feels part of a whole again and what is more, he now feels he has a real friendship with Enjolras, one where he may have something to give. A world which has seemed dull and stuck has started moving again. The colours have grown brighter and something inside him has been released. He doesn't quite dare voice it but perhaps it is to some extent true what Enjolras believes – that life, progress and purpose are stronger and shall always triumph against death and despair. The idea of hope is no less frightening than it has been when he has sat alone in his room – long ago, it seems – waiting to hear the hiss of raindrops outside but it is now more real, more tangible, and even more impossible to escape.

**End Note:** Kindly give me your thoughts (and prompts, in case you have decided to take me up on that one).


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note: **Thank you for your reviews, it is always a pleasure to read them. Wow, this thing is about to become novel-length… Here's the deal: this particular time the next chapter is practically finished and how quickly it is posted will depend on how inspired I feel to edit and post it so if you have any thoughts I urge you to share them. Of course, that doesn't mean you should leave me a review just because I say so but if you do have something to say be aware that your perspective can be refreshing and inspiring. Thanks!

**26.**

Combeferre is rather surprised on Tuesday morning when the housekeeper shows a flustered Joly into his sitting room.

"Combeferre, I must ask you to examine me," his younger colleague begins in a rush as soon as he crosses the threshold. "I have been coughing all week and I…" He stops abruptly when he registers the third person in the room. "Enjolras…" There is an awkward pause. "Forgive me, I did not think you would be here."

"I can easily leave if you need to speak to Combeferre in private," Enjolras says beginning to get up.

"No, don't! I…" Joly flushes and looks aghast. "It is only my usual antics, Enjolras, you must pay no heed." He smiles apologetically. "I should really not have rushed in like this, it was exceptionally rude."

"Not when it is only us," Combeferre says gently. "You are welcome to call at any time, you know that. Please, take a seat. What is the matter?"

Joly sits but looks uncomfortable even though he is trying to cover it. "It is nothing much, really. I have caught another one of my colds and was wondering if you could spare me a minute. You know they used to encourage us at school not to doctor ourselves but to trust in our colleagues." He chuckles nervously. "I should have just gone down the street…"

It suddenly strikes Combeferre what this is about and his heart speeds up in fear. "Don't speak nonsense. Of course you should come to me and not simply 'go down the street'. I could see you in my study. Enjolras, if you would only excuse us for a few minutes…?"

Enjolras nods. "Certainly." Worried lines have begun forming on his forehead. He, too, has probably guessed the likely reason behind this sudden visit.

As Combeferre is leading the other doctor towards his study Joly throws him a guilty look.

"I did not mean to bother Enjolras," he mutters.

"Enjolras is a grown man, not a child we should try to shelter," Combeferre says with as much conviction as he can muster in order to appease his friend. But the truth is that he, too, would have preferred it if Enjolras had not happened to be present. Their patient is weakened after the second procedure on his lungs and it would be better for his mind to be at ease as much as for his body to be at rest. Combeferre has even been discussing with him the possibility of checking into a consumption hospital for a short period just so he can get as much care as possible. Now his worries for Enjolras are joined by worries for Joly. He takes out his stethoscope and he realizes he is holding his breath and biting his lip as he listens. Joly is twisting a handkerchief in his hands as he follows instructions he is perfectly familiar with.

"I was careful…" he says weakly in the quiet of the room when Combeferre has remained silent for too long.

Combeferre shakes his head quickly and removes the instrument. "You need not trouble yourself. It seems to be nothing but a cold."

Joly blinks a couple of times almost as if he doesn't understand before exhaling and dropping his head in his hands. "Mother of God. Are you sure?"

Combeferre allows himself a smile. "I am positive. And, as far as I can tell, you are not showing any other symptoms but the cough?"

"No, but I thought…"

"I know." He embraces the younger man, feeling unspeakably grateful that the number of his patients has not doubled today. "But it is only a cold. You have survived millions of those."

Joly returns the embrace and sighs. "Perhaps you think me a coward for panicking like this. I look at Enjolras and…"

"No," Combeferre says with conviction. "It is no cowardice to want to live and be healthy. You did not shy away from the bullets when you thought it would help people. A deadly disease is a different thing – it serves no purpose. I sometimes even fear that suffering in silence and hiding the true horror from those around can put their minds too much at ease. If it brings comfort to the sufferer to find poetry or nobility in such a death so be it, but if it is only a mask it can be of no benefit to anyone. We must recognize an evil to fight it."

"I still wish it did not frighten me so."

It frightens Combeferre too if he is honest with himself. But this kind of fear is a constant companion for those who have chosen for their profession to walk among the sick.

"Do you think we are wrong about how it is transferred between people?" Joly asks as he starts putting himself to rights.

Combeferre thinks for a moment. "It seems the most logical explanation to me. It could, of course, be inherited as it seems prevalent in certain families but that does not explain how Enjolras got it. I know of no one in his family who has had it and, in fact, they seem to tend to live to an old age if the fact that he has a great-grandfather still living is any indication. I am also not a supporter of the idea that a person's mind and disposition are to blame. That seems to me sheer nonsense especially in terms of Enjolras. Yet we have not identified any other possible source yet either." He sighs. "So many things unknown. We are shooting in the dark."

Joly looks thoughtful. "If I am not sick then perhaps what I was looking at…" He cuts himself off. "You must come to my office and look at something with me but we can discuss that later. I distressed him already, I don't want to leave him in suspense too long."

When they return to the sitting room Enjolras is standing, looking out the window. He turns when he hears them approach.

"Just a cold, like I told you," Joly says immediately and slips into a chair with a smile. "Combeferre, do you suppose you could pour me a drink?"

As he complies Combeferre sees Enjolras's shoulders loosen almost imperceptibly. The blond smiles and sits as well but rather than retaking his original seat next to the one Joly is now occupying, he positions himself on the other side of the coffee table. He spends the next hour subtly keeping himself at some distance from both of them. This does not go unnoticed by Combeferre and he can tell by Joly's looks he has seen it too.

"You must get him back to his senses. I don't know how to," Joly says when Combeferre comes to see him off at the door. "I'm sorry for putting that silly idea in his head that he has to stay away. Tell him we'll take care of him whether he likes it or not."

Combeferre nods and returns to the sitting room to confront his friend.

"I should have realized how big the danger was earlier," Enjolras says in response to the questions about his behavior. "You both mentioned you believed the disease to be transferable and I took care not to get too close but perhaps it is not enough."

Combeferre shakes his head. "Enjolras, come now. Nothing at all has happened."

"Perhaps it is a warning. Perhaps I should not be so reckless. That hospital you spoke of…"

"You said you did not wish to go there."

"I do not believe I need to go there for my benefit but I would if it is to keep others from harm."

Combeferre hesitates, torn in two. He has spoken in favour of the hospital but for different reasons and he does not want his friend to go there out of a sense of duty. "Let us consider more carefully before we make a decision. The trial is in two days and I know you wanted to attend. After that we shall see. But I am telling you now, none of your friends will ever concede to leave your side, in the hospital or out of it."

Enjolras smiles a bit. "I pray that my friends have the sense to take care of themselves as well as they take care of me. If they don't, what else shall be left of me in the end?"

Combeferre doesn't want to reply. These conversations make his chest tighten. Instead, he changes the topic and for the rest of the day they talk about matters of education and he idly wonders what Joly is meaning to show him the next day.

**End Note:** RandR, please. Whether you take that as Read and Review or Reuse and Recycle, it's all good. Best if you do both – you'll help an author and save the planet.


	27. Chapter 27

"So this is what it takes to make M. Courfeyrac crawl."

Courfeyrac looks up from his position on all fours on the carpet and grins at his wife. "You have been known to achieve it as well."

Jacqueline smirks. "Oh, I know. But it took more time and effort than it does Victor."

Courfeyrac looks back at the baby who is half-walking half-crawling towards him and reaching a little hand every once in a while. "Well, he takes after both of us so he has twice the charm." He reaches his hand as well. Victor grasps it triumphantly and sits down. Courfeyrac chuckles and pulls him into his lap.

It still astonishes him, this new position he has found himself in. When he does not think about it, he is happy. His son is a constant source of novelty and entertainment and the older the child grows the more fascinating Courfeyrac finds him. It delights him to be recognized as 'father' and to search for bits of himself in Victor's features and behavior. It has awaken in him a specific kind of devotion he has not experienced before but he very much doubts will ever go away. Parenthood however is not the same as married life and he is not sure he is as delighted with the second as he is with the first. The thought that he is restricted now in the way he acts, in the women he can flirt with – which have been reduced to one – makes him feel trapped. It is a lucky thing that he is in love with his wife but he has been in love before and it has yet to last forever. He can tell that Jacqueline knows what he is thinking and it makes her furious. She is the kind of woman who will only ever give as good as she gets and it angers her that she cannot yet verify exactly what she is getting from him. That is no wonder since he himself doesn't know. On one hand, if there was ever to be a Madame Courfeyrac, he doubts a more suitable one could have come along. Jacqueline is a kaleidoscope and there is hardly ever a dull moment with her. She is resourceful, witty and she takes nonsense from nobody, even her own child. Victor will not be spoiled. Still…

When he visits Combeferre and his wife there is a sense of domesticity and a casual, thoughtless affection in the way the couple treat each other. Courfeyrac's own household feels more like a circus arena – everything is colours and fire and music and dance and Jacqueline and he are in a constant battle to make the other jump through a hoop. He has to wonder if it is possible for such a spectacle to go on forever.

And yet again, she thrills him. She makes love like a woman who knows that she is beautiful and that were she not that, she would still be skilled, and were she not that, she would still be deserving of any man she might ever want. She would kiss him or slap him in public at any time without a thought and, were she to discover he didn't love her, she would walk away and forget him so quickly that it would not even occur to her to burn his presents. There is something reassuring about her independence and it is probably what has kept him around, at least for this first year.

Her hand is in his hair now as she descends next to him and Victor on the carpet in a cloud of skirts. She has always favoured dresses with both a lot of cleavage and a lot of fabric in the skirt, especially after she has had the baby because they make her waist look tiny. Courfeyrac has to dig under the layers with his free hand so he can stroke her knee. She kisses his exposed neck – he has not put on his cravat yet.

"Don't let him chew that," she mutters.

Courfeyrac looks down to see the baby trying to take a bite out of one of the buttons on his waistcoat and pulls him away with a chuckle. "Perhaps he has developed a taste for fashion."

"His teeth are growing – he has a taste for everything right now."

Victor wriggles out of Courfeyrac's grasp to venture on another small journey across the carpet and Jacqueline takes his place in her husband's lap. "What do _you_ have a taste for?"

He laughs. "Wicked woman! I am due to leave any minute. I promised to pick Enjolras, Joly and Combeferre and go with them to the trial."

"What is stopping you?"

"Your legs, Madame, which are strategically placed so that it would be impossible for me to get up."

"Beg your pardon, Monsieur, I will keep my legs away from you."

She starts getting up but he pulls her back with a chuckle and kisses her. "They are entirely welcome to do with me as they please tonight. Right now though I will have to go and watch as dear Marius practices our noble profession."

"It could have been you if you had moved your finger to take your bar exam."

"Perhaps next time it comes around. I am not so keen on ending my years as a student."

"Uh-huh. You know you've got a family to feed now, monsieur, you need to get serious." She gives him a stern look but her tone is playful. She knows her family can provide for them all for a while. She winks, stands, pulls him up and starts tying his cravat.

Sometime later Courfeyrac arrives at Enjolras's apartment running up the steps because he is nearly late. He knocks and leans on the wall to catch his breath. There are hurried footsteps on the other side of the door and, to his surprise, the sound of voices arguing. He identifies them as Combeferre and Joly even before the door opens and their faces appear in front of him. Combeferre's is tight and a little pale while Joly's is flushed and both look very worried. Courfeyrac feels his stomach drop.

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately.

Combeferre sighs and rubs his forehead as he steps aside to let him in. "He collapsed."

"He is better now," Joly adds quickly, pulling him in the direction of the small kitchen. "He's resting. He had a bit of an episode…"

Combeferre makes an incredulous noise. "A bit of an episode? He nearly suffocated! He lost consciousness."

"He needs to rest more."

Courfeyrac looks from one to the other, confused and not a little frightened. "But I thought he seemed better…"

"That was before we collapsed his other lung three days ago," Combeferre says. "Obviously the wrong call."

"Not necessarily!" Joly argues. "His lung is resting and, hopefully, healing. It has evidently had at least some effect the first time or the more damaged lung he is using now would not have been able to support him at all."

"It doesn't!"

"It would if he were to keep strain to a minimum. It is a treatment _you_ suggested."

Combeferre shakes his head, his face anguished. "I made a mistake. We have hurt him further."

Joly draws a breath. "I think you are being irrational. The fact that it is you who first mentioned the procedure is making you feel overly responsible but all three of us agreed on it. Did you not tell me yourself that no one can legitimately claim to know how to cure this and so our tries are as good as anyone's and better for being more devoted?"

Combeferre gapes at him. "_I_ am being irrational? You will not let me send him to a proper hospital because of some strange idea of yours that…"

Courfeyrac waves his arms in front of their faces. "Hey, the two of you, shhh!" He waits to see that they have both subsided before continuing. "He can probably hear you. I could hear you from outside. I don't think he would appreciate you fighting over this."

They both flush a little. Combeferre drops tiredly in one of the two chairs in the kitchen.

"You are right. God, I hope he did not really hear."

Courfeyrac winces at the look on his face and throws his arms around both of his friends' shoulders. "But what were you quarreling about?"

"An acquaintance of mine runs a small hospital for consumptives and he has studied the disease for a while. He has been warning us against what we are doing and offering to admit Enjolras for a while now. Enjolras, of course, was not keen on the idea and so I have been turning the offers down but after the latest developments I think it may be wise to hand things over and see if it is not better that way. The doctor I am talking about has treated many cases of consumption and, if nothing else, he has never made anyone worse."

"What if it is not consumption?" Joly asks, making an effort to keep his voice down.

There is another heavy sigh from Combeferre. "Joly believes we are dealing with an unknown disease which is exactly like consumption but is caused by something different."

"When you look at the samples…" Joly begins.

"I looked at them," Combeferre interrupts mildly. "They are inconclusive at best."

Joly is shaking his head and gives Courfeyrac an imploring look as if he is the judge in this situation.

"There is evidence that the disease can be transferred through the bad air which forms in a room with a sick person coughing in it. However, we can find no hint that Enjolras has been anywhere near a person sick with consumption. I began wondering if Bahorel could have been accidentally right in his claims that America was what made Enjolras sick and if we weren't looking at a disease native to that continent. I have written to a doctor who saw him in America with some questions but it will be some time before we receive a reply. I also looked at blood and some matter from the surface of the lung for him and someone who died of consumption and there seem to be differences."

"Barely," Combeferre says. "And it could be because of the different stages of the disease or differences between a living person and a cadaver or any other difference between the two."

"But there is more!" Joly insists. "Even if there is no difference and it is consumption, in both jars I have observed progressive growths and garlic kills both. Even if it is consumption we can fight it ourselves."

"That is all good and I congratulate you on thinking of giving it to him. Perhaps many of us have been underestimating its benefits. But a whole man is not a glass jar. You are already stuffing him with garlic, what more do you want to do? Open him up and poor garlic juice directly on his lungs?"

Courfeyrac is starting to feel a little sick at this point and raises his arms again. "Please. What I don't understand, Joly, is why you object to the hospital so much."

"If it is _not_ consumption and we send him there, he may well _get_ consumption and then there will be no saving him."

"But how can it not be?" Combeferre asks desperately. "All the classic signs are there!"

"Then how has no one around him gotten sick with it as well? You know it often happens when people spend a lot of time with the sick person. It often crosses to family members and close friends."

"Not all doctors agree on that and some say it is simply inherited. And, in any case, it does not happen so easily."

"Perhaps not, but _none_ of us?"

"We have not stayed with him in close quarters for that long."

"There are people who have, for three months."

Combeferre's frown deepens. "We have to examine Grantaire and Suzanne."


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note:** Apologies for the long wait, reviews much, much appreciated and very good for inspiration.

**28.**

Won. The trial has been won. Suzanne can hardly believe it. The feeling of dread, the feeling that something is bound to go wrong has clung to her for so long – like some stubborn, dreadful smell – that it is trying to linger even now when the ordeal is all over.

Sophie Colbert, the prostitute Enjolras has convinced to testify, catches up to her at the exit of the court house. She looks as dumbstruck as Suzanne feels but there is something new in her eyes. Perhaps an optimist would call it hope or the beginning of belief. Excitement has brought some colour back to her hollow cheeks. She grasps Suzanne's hand and for a moment seems like she wants to say something but in the end only gives her an eloquent look before walking away. Marius Pontmercy, slightly flushed with pride at his well-led court battle, also shakes Suzanne's hand, followed by the other four of Grantaire's friends who have attended – Lesgle, Feuilly, Prouvaire and Bahorel. She doesn't know if they have only come to watch Marius or if they have really taken her troubles to heart but she has been glad to see them there. Grantaire is also present but he looks troubled and distracted. She guesses the reason easily – four others should have come too and among them is Enjolras.

"Courfeyrac I can imagine getting side-tracked for whatever reason," Feuilly says when the matter is brought up. "Even Joly. But it is not very much like Enjolras or Combeferre to miss an event like this when they have said they would come."

"We should check on them," Lesgle agrees. "But there is hardly any reason to worry yet. A number of things could have prevented them from coming."

"Where should we look for them?" Prouvaire asks. "No sense in all of us going to the same place."

"Go to Joly's office, Prouvaire," Bahorel suggests. "I will go to Combeferre's house, Feuilly can check Courfeyrac's and Grantaire – Enjolras's apartment. They are equally likely to be at any of those places. There is a afe across the street from Enjolras. Let's meet there in two hours."

"I'll come with you," Suzanne says to Grantaire as he turns to her looking like he is about to bid her farewell and rush off. He nods shortly, takes her arm and whisks her up the street at such a pace that she has to half-jog to keep up with him.

"Tell me I am a paranoid fool," he pleads. "What innocent, reasonable thing could have detained him?"

She hesitates, trying to come up with an answer. "I don't know," she admits. "But that doesn't mean anything dreadful has happened. Did he look sicker the last time you saw him?"

"Sicker than what?" Grantaire is speaking with frustration born of worry. "You remember a few days ago – he could barely breathe. The next day when I saw him in his home he seemed well enough but it is so difficult to tell with him…"

They are silent the rest of the way. They arrive at their destination in an admirably short time. The door is opened by Courfeyrac.

"Ah, you two!" he exclaims upon seeing them. "Here as if by magic! We have been talking about you. How did it go?"

"He has been condemned." Grantaire says hurriedly. "Where is Enjolras. Why did you miss the trial?"

"He's here." Courfeyrac lets them in, giving Suzanne a smile and a brief congratulatory pat on the hand. "He has been feeling a little… under the weather. He has been ordered by his doctors to sleep, I believe."

Grantaire stops in the process of removing his coat and pins him with a look. "Something happened. Something more than feeling under the weather."

Suzanne thinks a lesser man than Courfeyrac may be induced to squirm under his gaze. A sober, clear-eyed Grantaire is still something of a novelty among his friends and whenever that creature manifests itself they are often caught off-guard. But Courfeyrac, not being a lesser man, bears his friend's look admirably well and puts a hand on his shoulder. "He had some sort of episode which Combeferre seems exceptionally concerned about but Joly seems to consider not all that worrisome. I arrived here to find them arguing about it and I have been unable to make heads or tails of it since. There was also a debate about… well, come to the kitchen and speak to them yourself. We would be less likely to disturb Enjolras there."

The small kitchen becomes suddenly overcrowded when they enter it. Combeferre and Joly both stand up.

"The trial?" Combeferre asks.

"A success," Suzanne says. "I owe thanks to you all…" She pauses, taking note of his troubled expression. "…but perhaps when you are less preoccupied."

"Well, we are in luck," Joly says to Combeferre. "They are here. You can examine them both and be done with it. You will see there is nothing wrong with them."

"There are a number of things wrong with me, what are we talking about?" Grantaire asks with false flippancy.

Combeferre sighs. "There is… a theory… that consumption may cross from one person to another upon contact. It is not something that has been proven yet but… You spent a long time near Enjolras during your journey, have you been feeling quite well since then?"

Suzanne's heart speeds up so suddenly that she feels momentarily faint. Consumption is a death sentence. What if one of them has really got it? She finds she is equally terrified of the possibility of either one of them being sick. Has this been the reason for that fear, that sense of foreboding she has been unable to get rid of? She starts going over the last few months. Has she been feeling well, really? Has she coughed at all, had any fever? She is feeling ill _right now_, that's for sure.

Grantaire is silent for a few moments and then he slowly shakes his head. "I have felt approximately the same as ever." He glances at her. Suzanne shakes her head, too, albeit more hesitantly.

"If there have been any signs I haven't noticed them."

Combeferre begs to examine them anyway. He proclaims Grantaire healthy first and begins to usher the men out of the room so she would feel more comfortable. Suzanne cannot suppress a snort.

"Don't bother, love," she says, involuntarily slipping into the tone and expressions of her former profession. "Men have seen more of me than you're about to show."

A moment later she regrets opening her mouth. She feels dumb and dirty for doing it. The men pause, looking awkward. Courfeyrac recovers first.

"Mademoiselle, thank you for your confidence – I'm sure all of us are indeed capable of looking at a woman in every state of dress or undress with equal respect. I have much of that for you. We are however…"

"We are overcrowding the room and interfering with Combeferre's work," Grantaire finishes a bit gruffly and unceremoniously pulls Joly and Courfeyrac outside. Suzanne cannot completely account for his tone and the strange look he gives her as he exits. She feels suddenly quite alone but the examination only lasts a few minutes and soon all five are squeezed into the tight space again.

"So you found nothing alarming." Joly looks triumphant. "Do you feel convinced now?"

"I feel relieved," Combeferre replies.

"But will you tell Enjolras not to go to that clinic? I beg of you, don't let him go. I truly believe it will harm him and it does not seem like he is dangerous to us if these two are any indication. We will put him through the same treatment patients of the clinic receive if you wish, just please keep him away from sick people."

Combeferre considers this and finally nods. "Very well. I'll tell him not to go. But not now. Let him sleep. I will speak to him tomorrow."

"Are you staying here?" Grantaire asks.

"I would like to if someone could go and alert my wife."

"She may be a little alarmed at the moment. We are to meet Bahorel, Feuilly and Prouvaire across the street in…" Grantaire checks his watch, "around ten minutes. They have been looking for you in your homes and Joly's workplace. Bahorel was headed for your house, Combeferre, and he would have told your wife you did not appear at the trial. Courfeyrac's wife would have been visited too. Someone should perhaps put the poor women's minds at ease."

"Well," Courfeyrac says hesitantly, "perhaps I should head on home." It is evident he is not entirely happy with the idea. "I suppose you will be more use than me here, Combeferre..."

"Go on, my friend," Combeferre says gently. "If there is still need you can take my place tomorrow. And you, Grantaire, meet the others, tell them what has happened and take Mlle Lenglen home. You can trust me with Enjolras, can you not?" He turns to Suzanne. "Congratulations again on your victory, mademoiselle. I am sorry, we may have somewhat spoiled the day for you."

"I would rather be going, too," Joly declares while Suzanne is shaking her head. "There are things I want to look into. You can head straight for the mademoiselle's home, Grantaire. I will see if I can ask one of the others to make the trip to Combeferre's house and warn Martine. If not, I will go there myself before going back to my office."

Grantaire hesitates. "I must see him." The words are both a plea and an order.

"I would rather not risk waking him…" Combeferre falters. "Go on then."

Grantaire disappears into the bedroom for about ten minutes. She has no idea what has gone down in there and perhaps it's nothing special. In any case, when he comes out his expression does not give anything away.

They head for her employers' house, each lost in thought. Suddenly, about a third of the way there, Grantaire stops.

"What is it?" she asks.

"It was such an important victory and we did not even have a glass of wine to celebrate. Would you care for one?" He outstretches his hand.

"A glass of wine with you? That will carry on until morning. What will my master say? And it's beginning to rain…"

But when his hand starts falling she catches it.

"Still, it _is_ a special occasion."

He smiles, which surprises her.

"I did not think you would be in the mood for celebrating," she says as they change direction now heading for the nearest café. "I did not follow you to Enjolras's home because I expected to be thrown a celebration afterwards if that was what you thought."

He shakes his head and gives her another peculiar little look. "Always so eager to make it clear you expect nothing from me. I did not think at all about why you joined me." He smirks a little. "You are my friend and companion in all places dreary and scary. I was grateful that you came."

This tickles her and she smiles. "You are mine in turn so how could I not come? We should follow each other to some nice, sunny spot someday for a change." She glances up at the grey sky which is only leaking for now but looks like it will soon pour buckets of water on them and snorts. "Today is evidently not a good day to look for sunny spots though."

"I would not mind a rainy one so much either if…"

He doesn't finish immediately and she gives him an expectant look. He hesitates a little more.

"Come home with me?" he blurts out finally.

**End Note:** Thank you for your comments and I will try to hurry up with the next one.


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Note:** Apologies for the long wait but I have had an incredibly busy month. I am tutoring a little girl with autism who was incapable of saying a word when we started with her. She's talking now. As you can imagine, it's a very exciting but also extremely tiring job since she has behavioral problems as well. But she is a very intelligent and adorable child so I'm sure you will forgive me delaying this chapter on her account.

**29.**

He dreams of a bird being crushed in a fist – its heart thumping madly, about to burst, its wings struggling futilely and its beak open in a silent cry. He wakes up in darkness, with a strong throbbing pain at the back of his head. He has slipped off the carefully arranged pile of pillows and he is nearly suffocating again.

It is difficult not to panic when you cannot breathe. A basic survival instinct takes over and pushes everything else aside. He is the bird now – heart hammering desperately in his chest, the pressure of an invisible first crushing him. Not yet, Enjolras thinks as he fights for control of both his mind and his body. _Not now. Not like this. Not yet. _He turns to his side and tries to push himself up. His arms feel weak and shaky but he grits his teeth and tries harder, willing away the darkness which is threatening to swallow him. He thinks that if he loses consciousness now it just might cost him his life. He manages to prop himself on an elbow and lean over the side of the bed. Some of the pressure lifts up. He stays like that for a while, focusing on the next breath. Eventually, he gathers enough strength to sit up, folding his legs beneath him and leaning forward to further help himself breathe. He presses a pillow to his chest and coughs in his hand, trying to suppress the fit as quickly as possible – the fear that the bad air may pass the disease to someone else is now always present. He wishes he knew for certain whether there was really a risk but he has no intention to gamble with his friends' lives. He has made a decision to commit himself to the consumption hospital they have been discussing as soon as possible. It is not something he is happy about but even without the threat of contagion, the stress he is causing Combeferre and Joly and the time taken away from Combeferre's work in the government are too much. They easily outweigh the possible benefits of remaining in his apartment, even though he will probably be able to do less work in the hospital. Oh, but he wants to work! He wants to put some distance between himself and the failings of his weakening body. His spirit craves occupation and meaning even when he feels physically exhausted. The meetings to discuss politics are not enough – there is not much that can be done on that front at the moment. He has not finished his studies so he cannot practice law, even if he were to stay out of the hospital. He wonders briefly if it would be worth it to go back to studying. Does he have enough time? Are these attacks only a temporary reaction to the treatment or a sign that the end is near?

Combeferre and Joly have scolded him for going across town after Grantaire and Suzanne that one time but he does not regret it. He has enjoyed using his strengths for something productive, being useful. He knows that Combeferre at least understands. His poor friend who worries for him so... Enjolras sometimes wonders if he should try to make it more clear to him that he is fighting. Under the surface he _is_ fighting harder than any of his friends probably suspect. They see bravery but perhaps they don't see the struggle. If it had been a guillotine he was facing he might have gone to it with quiet dignity but this? This he is prepared to fight until the end. Acceptance is one thing, surrender another.

The dreadful tickle in his chest reappears, worse than before. This time, at the sound of his muffled coughing something stirs on the other side of the room. His vision is still blurry but he manages to discern the form of Jean Prouvaire curled up in an armchair in the corner. The poet must have been sleeping but he is clearly awake now and fully alert.

"Enjolras?"

Enjolras reaches shakily for the glass of water on the bedside table and drinks before answering. The headache subsides somewhat along with the coughing.

"I'm all right, Jehan. Why are you here? I'm afraid I missed your arrival."

Prouvaire moves from his seat in the shadows and comes over to sit on the edge of the bed. Now Enjolras can see him quite well in the moonlight.

"That is quite all right," he says, "You were asleep, I did not want to wake you. Grantaire told us what happened. I wanted to stay and help Combeferre since I have no other engagements at the moment."

"Has he gone home?"

"No. Still here. Probably still up frowning over medical texts."

"Medical texts? Ah, Combeferre… Killing himself with fatigue won't cure me."

The poet offers him a gentle smile. "One can easily understand his efforts. We all want you to get better. He thought the light might disturb you so he moved to the other room and left me here instead. You are not feeling bad again, I hope?"

"I was, but only briefly. I'm sorry I woke you."

Prouvaire blinks quickly in bemusement. "It _is_ what I'm here for, you realize."

Enjolras lets out a small laugh. "True, I suppose. Thank you, then. I admit I rather wish I didn't need your service."

"I would hardly call it service. You saved my life at the barricades, it is a very insignificant way to repay you."

The memory of numbing fear followed by overwhelming relief floats to the surface of Enjolras's mind. "All I did was negotiate a prisoner exchange."

"Your prisoner was an artillery sergeant. Giving him back to them lost you an advantage."

"A military advantage is a very relative thing. At the same time, I knew whatever future we were headed towards would be rather bleak without the likes of Jean Prouvaire in it. We have to protect men like you if we want to make the future not only equal and just but also beautiful."

"Enjolras…" The poet blushes and embraces him in one of those sudden rushes of emotion which sometimes overcome his shyness. Enjolras fights with himself for a moment, not wanting to push him away but worrying for his safety. "Be careful, mon ami," he says gently, laying a hand on the other man's arm.

Prouvaire withdraws quickly, giving him a worried look. "Forgive me, have I hurt you?"

Enjolras smiles and shakes his head. "Nothing of the sort. It may just be wiser for you to not come quite so close."

"I am not afraid."

"_I_ am."

Prouvaire shakes his head. "You should worry about yourself. You look pale. Are you sure you feel all right? Shall I get Combeferre for you?"

"No. Not now, I don't want him woken up if he has, by chance, managed to fall asleep. I will speak to him tomorrow. I feel well enough at the moment. It was only a little episode."

"Perhaps you should get some more rest."

"I have had more than the required amount of that; I don't think I can sleep again this soon." This is quite true but so is the fact that, tonight, the idea of sleep makes him feel vulnerable.

"I don't feel like sleeping either," Prouvaire says and shifts a little on the bed so that he can lean on the wall, clearly not intending to move.

Despite his worry Enjolras smiles. "Very well. Talk to me then. Have I missed any news apart from the trial? I got a brief account of that from Grantaire."

The poet nods in satisfaction. "Marius did well and I am very glad for Mlle Lenglen."

"As am I."

"She credits you with the final victory, along with Marius."

"She shouldn't, I did very little, but I am happy it has had a positive effect."

"As for other news… You may not know about Feuilly's little boys."

Enjolras's eyebrows lift. "I do not. Please, elaborate."

"It is very recent, we only heard of it today. A pair of boys from his street were recently orphaned. There is no one to take them in and he wanted advice on whether we thought he should attempt to. As I understand it, the children are – predictably – begging not to be separated but with his income, better than before though it may be, he will struggle with two more mouths to fill. I, of course, said that while I don't feel qualified to raise them, I would gladly provide for them but…"

"He will not refuse if it is for their benefit. He is not as proud as that."

"No. He will probably not refuse but… Oh, it is quite awful. I think he will feel like I am taking something from him. Does that make any sense?"

"It does." Enjolras taps his fingers thoughtfully. "I can understand what these children may mean to him – they are what he once was and he would find great satisfaction in helping them with his own means, proving that he has risen far enough above where he started to now be able to offer a hand to those still struggling. And if it were only one child I dare say he may have managed. Two, though…" This is frustrating. He has left a significant sum of money to Feuilly in his will and by the looks of it the man may be receiving it in the near future but Enjolras knows quite well that any mention of this would be much more likely to upset the worker than reassure him. What is there to do while he is still alive? "How old are those boys?" he asks.

"Eight and six."

"Very young, then. He will be in charge of them for a long time. Perhaps… It is something I have considered before but I have never felt like it was the right time to present the idea to him. Now though… With the last of our group graduating do you not think it might be good to still have a student in our midst? I think he may be persuaded to consider a loan from you and me and put that inquisitive mind of his to good use in a lecture hall. He is not Bahorel so he will not take forever to acquire a diploma and hopefully after that he may find much better employment."

Prouvaire's eyes light up. "He probably will! Even Bossuet is doing quite well now that he has graduated!" He pauses and suddenly his enthusiasm melts into pensiveness. He gazes dreamily out the window.

"What is it, Jehan?"

The poet looks at him again and gives him a peculiar smile, slightly sad but impossibly sweet.

"We are changing."

"We are," Enjolras admits. "Even those of us who struggle against it." He is thinking of Grantaire. "But progress requires change. It will all be better in the end."

**End Note:** The usual reminder to review, please, and the more you have to say, good and bad, the better. Thank you all!


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note: **Apologies again. Multitude of things I had to do. We are extremely close to the end. Maybe a couple of chapters more. Thanks to everyone who's reading and especially to those who have taken the time to review, even those who may want to hang me for this chapter. I hope you're all having a great summer.

**30.**

His abrupt invitation should have surprised her but it doesn't. She doesn't know why. What surprises her a bit more is that, after a beat, she shrugs and follows him without giving it a second thought. Something in his tone has appealed to her – something in this sudden, boyish, impatient suggestion, stuck between a plea and a command. It gives her a little thrill of excitement and the disarming feeling that she is wanted. It reminds her somewhat of the time he has asked her to go with him to America.

The new room is much like the old one. So much that Suzanne slips into it with perfect ease, draping her damp shawl over a chair without even thinking about it while he starts a fire. Table, fireplace, window, bed, cupboards. It might as well have been the same place. There is something both comforting and exciting about being here. The bitterness has gone from the memories of their encounters, perhaps chased away by the knowledge that those encounters have eventually led her to a better place. His occasional harshness, his pretended nonchalance – it all looks completely different now that she knows him so well. Things, little things he has said and done have started making sense in her mind as she has re-examined them and with that has come a surprising sense of power. Beneath his cynicism he is a kind man, yes, but he has not helped her entirely out of kindness. She sees now that he has always secretly hoped to be repaid in affection and he has considered it the highest price he could ask of her. Companionship means a lot to him and he does not take it for granted. But is there something… not 'more', she can't call it 'something more' because he would not put any feeling above friendship. But something _else_, perhaps?

"I'll pour us some wine," he mutters and busies himself with a bottle and glasses while she goes to stand by the window.

How strange. The rain is a comfort to her now. It seems to slow time down, make it stretch in peaceful tendrils around them. The feeling of cosiness is probably only due to the fact that she knows she does not have to stay out in the cold now. It's amazing how quickly a person can get used to having a warm bed every night and shoes with fewer holes in them. She remembers she has liked rain as a girl, before being thrown out onto the streets. In those days rain has seemed to give the city some odd charm. She squints now, trying to see an enchanted picture in the tired street lamps and beaten cobblestones; to find that lost feeling again.

Grantaire joins her, standing perhaps a breath behind her. "I waited for you, you know," he says. "Back then. And, for some reason, again after we came back from America. Every time it rained I could think of little else. It would have been easier if I had known for certain if you would appear or not but hoping… hoping is damn hard for an old bastard like me."

She smiles at his translucent reflection in the glass in front of her – it is growing darker outside and the image is growing clearer. "Only a juvenile idiot thinks himself old at this age, Grantaire. I know because I used to be one, too. It took me some growing up just to find out how much more growing up is ahead of us. True, that didn't matter when I was nothing but a whore – I would have never gotten anywhere either way. But it matters now. I am not ready to be old and tired. Neither are you."

She hears him take a breath and let it out slowly. "Do you know what he told me today?" He is obviously referring to his private conversation with Enjolras. She listens with interest as he continues. "He said I had good instincts when I chose to trust them. That the things I wanted to do were the things I should have been doing but I always hesitated and gave up. He said he would not ask for more if I would at least do that – give those things I wanted to do a serious try."

"He's right, of course," she says. "You will do well to listen to the man for once rather than shouting praises over his attempts to talk to you. He wants to leave some change behind – if not a change in the country then at least a change in the people around him."

Grantaire's reflection nods. "That's what I thought. And how could I not try for him? And so here we are because having you here was one of the things I wanted to do and so must be one of the things I should be doing."

She gives an incredulous laugh. "Oh, Grantaire. I bet I am not what he meant."

"You can bet he meant what he said and he said it was about what I wanted. The problem with that is that some things only work if someone else wants the same as you."

"Are you asking me if I want to be here?"

"Do you?"

"Yes… And no… I do, but every time we see each other we seem to leave each other somehow dissatisfied. Don't we? Dare tell me we don't! There is always more we wish we had said, more we wish the other one had said…" Her heart speeds up a little in warning as she speaks. This unguarded frankness is taking them into dangerous territory and she is still trying to decide if she wants to go there. Nevertheless, she continues. "It's like we both have a fantasy we are embarrassed to share."

"Perhaps that's true. Would it not be funny if it turns out to be the same fantasy?"

"Do you believe in Fate bringing people together? It has always seemed far too convenient for the people you happen to meet to turn out to be the right ones."

"But it is not who you meet, is it? It's who you keep. I think… If I believe anything it's that there are people one should not let walk out of one's life. That some relationships should not fall victim to the changing times or circumstances. Enjolras says that if that's a belief strong enough to take me to another continent I must hold on to it. I am wondering if we could endure…"

He pauses for a moment and she fixes her eyes on those of his reflection. "Endure what, Grantaire?"

"Endure us being us?"

He says it with a bit of a laugh but his eyes are serious when she turns to face him. They have not lit any candles and the room is quickly going dark, the only light coming from the fireplace and the street lamps outside. "Are you sure I am not only here today because I am… convenient?"

He looks affronted. "Convenient, Suzanne? Forgive my bluntness bordering on rudeness but while I may have been convenient to you, when have you ever been convenient to me? And, in spite of that, have you not noticed that even though it may have seemed like you were the one coming to me for help I was the one always seeking ways to keep you around, inconvenient though you may have been? Damn it, woman, must you always look for some motive rather than the obvious?"

"The obvious being?"

He crosses his arms and looks at the ceiling. "That I have always hated the idea of you resenting me and trying to avoid my help while all the while I imagined we somehow fit each other. That I'm damn lonely without you and even all of my other friends being around does not completely compensate for that. You are one of them now. I've been busy trying to fill the holes they left when they scattered and in the meantime you've gone and punched another one. While we're both alive in the world the idea of not spending the vast majority of our time in the same space bothers me. The idea that you may confide in another man as you have confided in me bothers me just as much. I have grown so accustomed to the way you speak that my mind talks to me in the same voice when it isn't busy copying Enjolras or, sometimes, one of the others. I am so in tune with the way you move that even with my eyes closed I would know where to turn so you would accidentally brush against me. I would rather look at you brushing your hair with that brush I gave you than Aphrodite herself if she came naked from the skies and danced the can-can. I love you with the deepest love I've known – that which I save for my friends. I suppose the difference is that there is not one of them whom I have spent months sharing a bed and trying to refrain from sleeping with because at that point I only wanted to do it if it meant something to you. I'm… I'm… out of clumsy explanations, mademoiselle, pronounce your verdict and let it be off with my head if that is what the court decides."

She stares at him for a few moments in the rapidly falling darkness and then bursts laughing. "So you are a cynic who is also a romantic." There may be amusement in her voice but the remark carries more fondness than mockery. "I always knew you were a strange sort." She steps forward, closing the gap between them, and puts her hands on his shoulders. "If we are allowed to call upon the Greek gods then I must say I've already dined with Apollo on more than one occasion and I found you more appealing. Now where do I find a dancing Aphrodite so we can test your claim?"

She hears him exhale in a soft chuckle and then all she hears is the rain.

**End Note: **Go ahead and tell me your thoughts, whether you like it or dislike it. Not much left now so you might as well encourage me to finish. Otherwise you may never find out how it all ends ;P


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note:** There is only one chapter left after this one. I have enjoyed writing this story immensely. Thank you to all those who have stuck with me!

**31.**

In the end, he does not check into a hospital. The crises eventually become rarer and stop as his second lung expands. There is a period in which he is feeling relatively well. Christmas finds them all in Courfeyrac's house – Courfeyrac would not hear of anyone celebrating their first Christmas back together anywhere else. There is noise and dancing and more women and children than Enjolras is normally surrounded by but he enjoys it – they are the women and children of his friends. Grantaire comes in the company of Suzanne-Marie Lenglen. This is not in itself anything surprising – she has been invited personally by Jacqueline Courfeyrac who has taken a particular liking to her and, even without that, after being so involved in her trial, the men now consider her a friend. However, there is a subtle shift in the way Grantaire and Suzanne regard each other. Combeferre is the one who directs his attention to this fact before he hurries off to stop Courfeyrac from publicly commenting on the matter. Enjolras smiles but does not dwell on it. To him, time goes and rivers flow as they should. The main thing is that there must be progress and Grantaire has made a lot.

After New Year Joly begins insisting they repeat the operation a third time – once again on the more damaged lung. Combeferre does not say anything about it at first. Then, to Enjolras' mild surprise, he agrees, so Enjolras agrees too. He pushes down his tiredness and frustration as much as possible. It takes a greater effort this time. The battle is taking its toll on him, the constant surveillance of his doctors and the restrictions imposed on him by the treatment seem to be taking his freedom away as effectively as any prison. After the third operation he is not as weak and breathless as after the second but that is to be expected – he is breathing with his less damaged lung. Everyone mentions he is looking better – maybe too often. Joly is very encouraging but Combeferre does not say much beyond 'You are doing well' which he accompanies with a somewhat strained smile. The doctors talk a lot in hushed voices even though they look very embarrassed about it if he happens to catch them. Sometimes, even though he does not try to, he overhears bits of conversation.

"_You must tell him."_

"_I can't. Not yet."_

"_It isn't fair to keep it from him."_

"_What if we are wrong?"_

"_We are not wrong, Combeferre."_

Finally, he puts an end to the examinations. He promises to continue following any advice he receives from Combeferre and Joly but he requests that they stop following his progress. He does not want to know anymore. He wants to push the disease to the periphery of his mind as much as possible and make good use of the rest of his time. There are some protests but they are rather feeble. Both Joly and Combeferre are forced to consent. Even so, they do not stop striving to protect him from drafts and cold air, sometimes to the point of personally tying his scarves.

Enjolras pushes Combeferre to pay more attention to his political engagements and advises him on them. Soon they are vouching for a new law aimed at giving more rights to the workers. Ferdinand-Philippe is unofficially in favour of it but officially he is still cautious – more of the high-ranking people in the government would have to be convinced first. It is a real task and Enjolras applies himself to it with enthusiasm even though he stays in the shadows, providing only guidance and a different angle for Combeferre. Their roles are now reversed in comparison to their years as rebels. Then, Enjolras has been the public face and Combeferre his faithful advisor. The partnership is turned on its head now but they find it still works easily.

They are in Combeferre's office one day in early spring and Enjolras is frowning over a paragraph in the draft of the law with somewhat questionable wording. He glances up in the middle of a comment and is surprised to find that Combeferre is not bent over his own copy but is sitting straight and seems to have been staring at him for a while.

"What is it?"

Combeferre bites his lip – a rather uncharacteristic nervous gesture. "Enjolras… Let me examine you. Please."

Enjolras' first instinct is to shake his head and push on with their work before Combeferre has a chance to insist. He is dismayed at the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. The request is so unexpected that it has caught him completely off-guard. But Combeferre is fixing him with a very serious, very steady look and he hesitates with the refusal on his lips. He exhales softly. "I don't know, Combeferre… I feel well."

"You must let me. Please."

Enjolras raises his eyebrows, startled by the force behind the demand, even though Combeferre's voice stays soft. He sighs and caves.

Combeferre often talks during examinations, maintaining a gentle, steady stream of words aimed at calming his patient. This time he is silent apart from the occasional quiet direction. The minutes stretch and Enjolras is positive that this is taking way too long. Combeferre seems entirely disinclined to put down his stethoscope. The cold piece of mental is pressed to his back almost like the barrel of a gun. He chastises himself for the comparison – it is such an inappropriate analogy when he is in the hands of one of his dearest friends.

Finally, after what seems like an hour, Enjolras feels the doctor step back and turns to look at him. Combeferre has withdrawn a few steps. He looks pale and shaken as Enjolras has never seen him in his life. "What is the verdict, Combeferre?" he asks gently. "You know you can speak to me honestly and the news will hardly be surprising."

Combeferre's lips move but no sound comes out and then, to Enjolras' shock, he covers his mouth with a hand to muffle a sob and begins crying. Alarmed, Enjolras approaches him and grips his shoulders. The scene before his eyes makes no sense to him. He has never expected such a reaction from Combeferre, not even at what is apparently the news of his fast approaching death. He has imagined his friend would grief and be devastated to let him go but such complete crumbling is entirely beyond comprehension, especially since there has never been much real hope for his recovery and they have all had so much time to come to terms with the idea. "Combeferre, please…" he says gently. "It pains me to see you suffer on my account. I should not have let you do this. We always knew I was dying."

Combeferre shakes his head vigorously and lets out something between a sob and a laugh. "Enjolras… You are not dying."

Enjolras frowns at him. "I don't understand."

"You are not…" He pauses and tries to control his voice with moderate success. "You are not dying." The next thing he knows, Combeferre has pulled him into a tight embrace, alternating between laughing and sobbing and trying to get a few words in between. "God forgive me, I should have told you but I was so afraid… I didn't dare believe… I didn't dare believe what we were doing was working. You are healthy, Enjolras, or at least nearly so. You see… you were getting better even a few months ago. We all saw it, the examinations confirmed it, yet I could not bear to voice it. I made Joly hold his tongue as well although I believe he was ready to punch me for my stubborn stupidity. He was nearly ready to pronounce you on the road to full recovery when you asked us to stop the examinations. It terrified me. I reasoned that if we had indeed been granted a miracle not knowing about it until it was certain would hurt you and the others less than it turning out to be a lie… Forgive me, I… I would have told anyone else the truth but I could not stand the idea of being the bearer of a false hope. I don't know myself how I could have kept it a secret…"

Enjolras backs a few steps until he hits the sofa and sits down, pulling Combeferre, who is still holding him, with him. He is stunned and yet… he has known, too. He has felt his body healing, his strength gradually returning, he has seen the pallor and dark shadows disappearing from his reflection in the mirror. He has come up with a number of explanations for this. He has tried to convince himself that the excitement of his work with Combeferre has brought him new strength. He has also heard of dying people experiencing surges of energy and apparent improvement before their final deterioration and he has decided that must be it. He has thought it necessary to remain stoic and not grasp at straws but deep down…

"So…" he says slowly, tasting the idea, turning it around and looking at it from all sides before accepting it as true. "We've won?"

Combeferre laughs again and lifts his forehead from where it has been resting on Enjolras' shoulder in order to look at his friend. Through the tear stains and paleness brought on by the shock of the weight of the world suddenly leaving his shoulders, he is smiling. "We've won."

**End Note:** One more to go to wrap it up, kids. Please, review.


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